


Compelling

by BrighteyedJill



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Fuck Or Die, Homophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Violence, Partner Betrayal, Rape Recovery, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-21
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Nick goes undercover, he and Greg end up in serious trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Compelling

Necessita c’induce, e non diletto. – Dante, _Inferno._  
(It is necessity, and not pleasure, that compels us.)

 

***********

Nick Stokes lingered in the hallway outside of the locker room, ostensibly talking to  
Sarah, but really waiting for Greg to finish his shift. As soon as he saw the lab-tech-  
turned-CSI out of the corner of his eye, he waved goodbye to Sarah, took a deep, calming  
breath, and headed for his locker. 

“Hey Greg,” he said nonchalantly. He was rewarded with a quick smile and a distracted  
“hey” as Greg shrugged out of his lab coat. “Haven’t seen you all day,” Nick said,  
pretending to look for something in his locker. “Were you in the lab?” Shut up, Stokes.  
You know he was. 

“Yeah. They needed my help to catch up with all the evidence from that blood bath at the  
Bellagio. What a mess.” Greg shook his head, and leaned casually against the bank of  
lockers. “How was your shift?” 

“Oh, you know. I was working that hit-and-run, so…” Nick trailed off awkwardly. Very  
smooth, Stokes. Very well-planned.

“Well, at least you’re done for the day, right?” Greg asked. Was it Nick’s imagination  
that there was a gleam in his eye?

“Actually, I’m supposed to go meet with Brass and Grissom. Some special assignment  
they wanted me on. So…” Conversational gold, Nicky. Really. He’s swooning. 

“Oh. Okay.” Greg looked at Nick for a moment, then down at his shoes, then back at  
Nick before saying, “Well, I’ll see you at work tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Nick said, and fairly fled the room.  
******  
Nick looked at Grissom, then Brass, then back to Grissom. “You have got to be kidding,”  
he said incredulously.

Brass shook his head. “Not kidding. We need you, and it has to be tonight.”

“Look, Nicky,” Grissom said. “If you feel uncomfortable with this, I completely  
understand. You don’t have to go through with it.”

Nick saw Brass clench his jaw. “What happens if I don’t?” Nick asked.

“Then we don’t have a chance to get all the perps. If we’re lucky, we might be able to  
collar the one that comes to the pick-up site, but-.” Brass shrugged. “It’s unlikely we’ll  
find enough evidence to make a charge stick.”

“So what exactly do you need me to do?”

“You just need to go with them and wait until they do something incriminating, then call  
for back-up,” Brass explained. “We intercepted an out-of-towner, Nathan Lawrence, who  
was supposed to meet them tonight. Apparently he was coming to get some pointers from  
these guys. You’ll be posing as him.”

“Pointers?” Nick asked. “What kind of a crime ring is this?”

“Think cult,” said Brass. “Or conservative activists run amok.”

“They’re an anti-homosexual group, Nick,” said Grissom. “They kidnap gay men, and  
torture and sodomize them to show them the error of their ways.”

“Making a statement about the evils of homosexuality by raping gay men? That’s…”  
Nick couldn’t find the word he wanted.

“Twisted,” Grissom supplied.

“To say the least.” Nick suppressed a shudder.

Brass brought them back to business. “Listen, Nick. Our stool pigeon told what they  
know about him: his name, what he looks like, that he’s from Texas--,” 

Nick interrupted. “Why isn’t one of your guys doing this?”

“They don’t have the right combination of skills. Plus nobody else fits the description  
quite as nicely,” Brass said. 

“We need a scientist’s eye and a cop’s instincts,” Grissom put in. “You’re the man for  
this job.” 

Nick wondered for a second if either Brass or Grissom knew of his sexual preferences,  
but nothing in their tone or body language indicated they’d been discussing anything  
other than his professional skills. He breathed an internal sigh of relief. “If this will help  
us get the bad guys, then I’ll do it,” he said finally.

“Good man,” said Brass. “I need to make some arrangements.” He walked out of  
Grissom’s office. 

“Nick,” Grissom said seriously. “This could easily go too far. If you’re in any danger at  
all, get out. Understand?” Nick nodded. “I mean it. Don’t play the hero this time.”

“Yes sir,” said Nick. “I’ll be careful.”

****************

The leader seemed to be a clean-cut thirty-something named Jacco. He greeted “Nathan  
Lawrence” at the bus station and drove him to the convenience store where they were  
meeting the rest of the team. This was the tricky part; if Lawrence had lied about what  
these people knew about him, or tipped them off somehow, they’d probably make their  
move as soon as Nick was alone with them. But Jacco fell to chatting with him in the car,  
probably hoping to impress with his anti-queer rhetoric, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief  
when they pulled into the QuickMart’s parking lot.

Two other guys got out of their vehicles when Jacco’s Buick came to a stop. “Hey guys.  
This is Nathan,” Jacco said, waving his hand in Nick’s direction. “Nathan, this is  
Charlie.” He indicated a skinny redhead in his early twenties. “It’s his first time out, but  
he’s a good man. And this is Marty.” Marty was older, forties probably, short and  
muscley, and he grunted in way of greeting. “You’ll meet Caz soon. He went fishing.”  
Jacco winked suggestively. 

Nick pulled back one corner of his mouth to transform his usual beautiful smile into what  
he hoped was a cynical sneer. The guy next to him, Marty, licked his lips. “Don’t worry,”  
Charlie said knowingly. “Caz is great queer-bait.”

Jacco smiled. “Don’t let Caz hear you say that. Okay then. This is it.” He pulled a plastic  
bag out of his coat pocket and held it open. “Point of no return. Cell phones, wallets,  
keys, in the bag.”

Nick furrowed his brow in concern. “What?”

“We got to give up our stuff,” Charlie explained eagerly, dropping his wallet in the bag.  
“You know. For safety.”

Nick thought about the cell in his jacket that Archie had outfitted with a GPS  
transponder. Brass would follow the phone, and be right there when he needed to call.  
With no way to call for backup, he might not be able to handle the situation. But if he  
didn’t go, they’d do what they were going to do anyway. Damn it. 

Jacco looked at him expectantly, holding the bag open. “You in, man?”

Catch the bad guys. Don’t be a hero. Okay. Nick took the tracker/cell phone from his  
pocket, and dropped it in the bag. “Yeah. I’m in.”

************

The guys sat around drinking beers while they waited. The quiet guy, Marty, had a van,  
and they’d all piled in to drive to this place, the basement of a crappy storefront. Nick  
wasn’t sure if they’d used it before or just picked it for this occasion, but it was pretty  
sparse: a table and some chairs, a dirty mattress on the floor, and a sink in the corner. The  
bare light bulb that was the room’s only illumination added to the crime scene mystique. 

Nick jumped when the door to the alley banged open, admitting a tall, blond twenty-  
something man carrying a person over his shoulder. Marty went to close the door while  
Jacco got up to shake the newcomer’s hand. “Hey Caz. Bring us something?”

“You know I never let you down. This guy was all over me. I think he almost creamed  
his pants when I asked if he wanted to go somewhere private.”

Charlie snickered. “Sounds like he’s in need of some rehabilitation, yeah?”

Caz threw the man down on the mattress and brushed off his shoulders. “Someone else  
goes next time, man. I’m going to have to scrub for hours to get this fucking faggot smell  
off me.”

The other men laughed, but Nick’s attention was on the man on the floor. He was  
blindfolded, with his hands tied in front of him with rope, duct tape over his mouth, and  
seemingly unconscious. They must have taken him from a club, because he had on the  
tight jeans and tight t-shirt combo that was practically uniform in certain of the city’s gay  
clubs. In the low light, Nick couldn’t tell his age or distinguish his features, but the hair  
stood up on the back of Nick’s neck, and his stomach churned. 

“Oh hey, Nathan this is Caz, of course,” Jacco clapped Nick on the shoulder and gestured  
to the newcomer. “He’s our resident queer-catcher. Caz, Nathan.”

Nick muttered a polite “hey” to the blond, but his mind was racing. Could he take these  
four guys, single handedly? Probably not. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t just leave the guy  
they’d kidnapped. As if to emphasize Nick’s point, the bound man moaned softly.

“Great timing. Hey, you got the stuff?” Jacco asked, looking to Caz. Caz nodded and  
flashed Nick a malicious smile. 

“Hey faggot. Hold still.” Jacco sat on the prone man’s chest, and put his hand over the  
duct-tape gag Caz held something under their victim’s nose. Nick didn’t realize what was  
happening until the man, fighting for breath, breathed in through his nose and some of the  
white powder fell from Caz’s hand onto the floor. 

Nick took an involuntary step forward, mind racing. “This could easily go too far,” Gris  
had said. Yeah. Come on, Stokes. DO something. 

“What is that shit?” Charlie asked, wide-eyed.

Caz stood and sauntered past Nick, licking the rest of the powder off his fingers. “Crystal,  
man.” He took a baggie out of his pocket and waved it in Charlie’s face. “Meth.” Nick  
raised an eyebrow. He was sure Brass hadn’t mentioned drugs in the information he’d  
gotten from his informant. 

Jacco noticed his concern and jumped in, eager to lecture. “We’ve found that drugs can  
be pretty useful for our purposes. We want him to remember every detail of his  
reeducation. The meth will help the whole thing burn a little brighter for him.”

“And we use it to enhance performance,” Caz added. “We’re certainly not faggots, so it  
helps to have a little something extra to help get the job done, you know?” 

Jacco grinned. “Speaking of which, I think it’s time to ask him, don’t you?”

Nick felt sick. In the van on the way here, he’d heard Jacco explaining the philosophy of  
this part to Charlie. “The idea is that faggots like to take it up the ass, right? So you play  
with ‘em a little. Let ‘em pick their own poison. You know? The faggot gets to pick who  
gives them their re-education.”

Jacco grabbed the prone man by the hair and dragged him into the circle of light thrown  
by the single bulb. Caz squatted before the victim and gently untied the blindfold; the  
groggy man blinked at the sudden light.

Nick stood frozen as the two other men edged closer to get a better look at their victim. It  
was Greg. Greg Sanders. There was a bruise purpling on his cheek and white reside from  
the meth sticking to the duct tape over his mouth, but it was unmistakably him. Greg tried  
to pull away, Jacco jerked him back by the hair, and then he was still, looking around the  
room until his eyes came to rest on Nick. No. Not Greg. Not him.

DO something, Stokes. Keep them talking. “He’s a little scrawny, Caz,” he joked,  
surprised at how casual his voice sounded. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have thrown him  
back?”

The group laughed, and Greg blinked several times, as if trying to convince himself there  
was nothing wrong with his sight. He wrenched his gaze away from Nick and didn’t look  
back at him. Nick, on the other hand, felt rooted to the spot, taking in every move of  
Greg’s, but unable to act.

“Hey, faggot.” Caz snapped his fingers in front of Greg’s face to get his attention. “Listen  
up. You’re very lucky tonight. Do you know why?” he asked quietly.

Greg narrowed his eyes, and Nick could have told Caz that he wasn’t going to provide an  
answer. 

“Hey princess, the nice man asked you a question,” said Jacco. 

Greg mumbled something into the tape that sounded suspiciously like “Fuck you.”

“You’re lucky because you’re going to get saved tonight. We are giving you the  
opportunity to save yourself. Tonight, you’re going to learn why it’s not okay to be a  
faggot.”

Greg tried to turn his head away, but Caz grabbed his chin and turned it back to face him.  
“We’re going to help you. One of these nice men here,” he gestured around the room, “Is  
going to show you why you don’t like taking it up the ass as much as you thought you  
did.”

Nick saw a glint of fear in Greg’s eyes. “This is the participation part,” Jacco said. “You  
get to pick which one of us you want.”

Greg shook his head no. “Aww,” said Caz, in mock disappointment. “He seemed so eager  
an hour ago. Now he doesn’t want to play.” Marty took a step closer, menacing. Caz  
waved him off. “Listen, queer. We’re giving you a choice. We’d prefer to not all have to  
do this, so you get to pick who’s teaching you tonight. If you don’t pick, we all have to  
participate.”

Nick heard the gun before he saw it: the metallic click of the safety coming off sounded  
sharply in the quiet basement. Jacco had a nine millimeter at the back of Greg’s neck.  
Greg heard the sound too, of course, knew what it was. He stilled, and closed his eyes.

“Or maybe this one is just beyond rehabilitation,” Jacco said with mock-concern. “If he  
doesn’t want to help save himself, maybe we should just end it for him.” Jacco leaned  
down close to Greg’s ear, but Nick couldn’t hear what was said.

“Right then.” Caz stood up and stepped back to stand in the semi-circle of guys facing  
Greg and Jacco. “You have until three to point to your choice, and then my friend here is  
going to put you out of your misery. One.”

Greg closed his eyes; Nick could hear him making noise through the tape, but couldn’t  
pick out words. Charlie shifted nervously. 

“Two.”

Jacco pressed the barrel of the gun into Greg’s neck. Nick calculated the distance  
between himself and Greg, counted how many steps it would take to get between his  
friend and the gun.

“Three.”

Before Nick could move, Greg raised his tied hands to point, and opened his eyes. He  
met Nick’s shocked stare with total calm. 

“See!” Caz stepped forward to pat Greg’s cheek. “You’re on the road to recovery,  
faggot.” Jacco grabbed the back of Greg’s shirt to pull him over to the mattress, while  
Caz walked over to Nick. “Alright, Tex. Now you can get some practice.” Caz flashed  
him an anticipation-filled smile and pressed a baggie of white powder into his hand. “It  
works quicker if you snort than if you swallow,” he said, then turned back to the mattress. 

Nick stared at the baggie in his hand. No way could he do this. Any of this. He had to get  
Greg out of here. Now. Jacco turned away from the mattress, and Nick saw the flash of  
the gun in his hand. If he could just get the gun…

“What’s the matter?” Jacco asked.

“Nothing,” Nick answered quickly. “I just… I don’t usually use this shit.”

Jacco smiled, but it wasn’t a nice expression. “Well, all in the line of duty, right? Hey—  
tell you what we’ll do--.” 

Someone yelled, and when Nick turned his head to look, he saw Caz falling to the floor,  
and Greg stumbling towards the door. Now, Stokes. He lunged for Jacco, but the other  
man had already moved. A gunshot echoed around the room. Nick and Greg froze at the  
same time, and for a moment, Nick thought his fellow CSI had been shot. 

“I don’t have to miss,” Jacco said calmly. “Stop fucking around, faggot.”

“That fucker broke my nose!” Caz yelled. “God damnit!”

“Marty, go help Caz,” Jacco ordered. Marty went to Caz, who was still swearing  
viciously. “Charlie, put him back.” Charlie caught Greg by the shoulder and pushed him  
back towards the mattress. “Strip him,” Jacco added before turning back to Nick. “See,  
you just gotta show ‘em who’s boss.” Before Nick could respond, he grabbed the bag of  
meth. “I’ll cut you some lines. Come on.” 

Jacco safety-ed the gun and stuck it in the back waistband of his jeans before taking a  
seat at the table and gesturing for Nick to do the same. He poured a small pile of the  
white powder on the table, and fished out a ShopCo Saver’s Card from his pocket. 

“You’re with us, and you’re going to do it our way,” Jacco explained while he arranged  
the meth into three neat lines with the edge of his card. “Unless you think you’re not up  
to this. I mean, you were fag-boy’s choice, but we could make an exception. I think Caz  
is pretty pissed off.” Jacco jerked his head towards the corner to indicate his friend.  
“He’d be happy to take your place.” 

Caz let out a muffled scream. “I had to put it back straight,” Marty explained sheepishly.  
Charlie looked up from untying Greg’s shoes to give Caz a sympathetic half-smile.

Nick bit his lip. If he couldn’t get the gun.. If he had to do this… He couldn’t go through  
with this. He couldn’t rape Greg. But if he didn’t… Wouldn’t one of the others hurt him  
more? 

Jacco held out a rolled-up dollar bill. “Well?” he prompted.

I am never going to forgive myself, thought Nick, and took the bill. The first line burned,  
hard, and he turned away from the table, coughing. 

Jacco patted him on the back. “Hey, it’s okay. Just one more.”

“One’s enough,” Nick said weakly.

“You’re a big guy. Two’s better. Go on.” 

Nick snorted the second line under Jacco’s watchful eye, and held the bridge of his nose  
until the burning subsided. “Good,” said Jacco. “Just wait. You’ll start to feel it soon.” He  
guided Nick over to the mattress, near the others. Charlie was struggling to pull off  
Greg’s jeans, but Greg wasn’t cooperating. 

Now, while they’re distracted, Nick told himself, and started to reach for the gun. Just  
before Nick got there, Jacco grabbed the gun out of his waistband. “Head’s up,” he  
called, and tossed the gun to Caz, who pointed it at Greg. 

“Bitch, you know I’m not going to hesitate to use this, so simmer down.” Greg stopped  
struggling and Charlie finished pulling off his pants. The t-shirt had to be torn off, as  
Greg’s tied hands were an obstacle. Charlie hesitated briefly and earned an impatient “Go  
on,” from Caz before pulling off Greg’s briefs, leaving him naked. Nick turned his head  
away, afraid to meet Greg’s eyes.

“Um, Jacco, I think he’s having trouble breathing,” Charlie said. 

Nick looked back to see that Greg’s eyes were closed and his nostrils were flaring as he  
struggled for air. Make them take the tape off, Stokes. “Yeah, that shit’s hard on the  
nose,” Nick said with a little laugh. 

“He can’t breathe,” Charlie repeated. “Dudes, I don’t want him to suffocate.”

“Calm down, okay. Take the tape off, if you’re so concerned,” Jacco said dismissively.  
Gag him, though. Hey, where’s that t-shirt you got off him?”

Charlie retrieved the t-shirt from where he’d thrown it, and ripped a strip off. Caz leaned  
over Greg and growled, “Don’t even think about screaming, or I’ll shoot you in the knee,  
and we’ll try again, okay?” Greg nodded, and Caz ripped off the duct tape. Greg took a  
few huge gulps of air before Charlie slipped the t-shirt strip into his mouth and tied it  
behind his head. 

Jacco waved a hand in front of Nick’s face. “Hey. You feeling it?” 

Nick had heard a lot in his law-enforcement training about how it felt to take various  
drugs, and now he catalogued each effect as it occurred. Rapid pulse, dilated pupils,  
euphoria, increased libido. Shit. For a moment, Nick wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt so good.  
Then he looked at Greg, naked on the floor, staring back at him, and he understood what  
addicts meant when they said their sex drive overwhelmed their logic. 

Nick knew Greg had been kidnapped, tied up, drugged, and stripped naked, but none of  
knowledge stopped Nick’s body from responding to the way Greg was displayed. “I am a  
terrible person,” Nick thought, immediately followed by, “Greg is an amazing man.”

“Yeah, he’s feeling it,” Caz said in a slightly stuffy voice. “Go ahead, Tex. Show us how  
it’s done.” 

Nick’s head was spinning. Maybe he felt lightheaded because all his blood was rushing to  
his groin. He thought of the scene in the locker room hours earlier. If someone had told  
him then that later that night, he would be fucking Greg Sanders, he would have laughed  
in their face. How many times had he imagined them together. Him and Greg. This was  
far from Nick’s fantasy situation, but still, the object of his desire was there, naked, in  
front of him.

Nick knelt at the edge of the mattress and rested on hand on Greg’s ankle. He felt a jolt in  
his groin as he made contact with Greg. What had Jacco said? “Make things burn a little  
brighter?” His skin felt like needle-points of pleasure. And that was just his hand. He  
wondered how it would feel when--. He looked up to meet Greg’s eyes. Nick wasn’t sure  
what he read there: fear certainly, but something else, too. Nick felt his erection swell,  
and hoped what he saw in Greg’s eyes wasn’t hate. 

“Go on,” Jacco said. 

“It’s just… weird having an audience,” Nick temporized. 

Jacco softened a bit. “Fair enough. Back off for now, guys. We’ll give you a little space  
to get started.” Charlie, Marty, Jacco, and Caz took a few steps back, leaving Nick and  
Greg together on the mattress. 

Nick edged forward, running one hand up Greg’s leg, and considered how he could do  
this. Would it be easier if he didn’t have to look Greg in the face? He tried to read Greg’s  
eyes, see what he wanted him to do. He though he saw a nod, barely perceptible, and  
made his decision. It would be easier to see Greg’s reactions this way, make sure he  
didn’t hurt him. 

He grabbed Greg’s leg and propped it up on his shoulder, lifting Greg’s hips and  
spreading him. He regretted that he had no lubricant, but since pain was the whole point  
of this exercise, he thought his comrades would frown on that. Nick settled for spitting on  
his fingers before positioning them at the entrance to Greg’s ass. 

“Come on, just do it,” Charlie said.

“Hey, haven’t you ever fucked a girl this way?” Nick snapped. “It’s supposed to hurt  
him, not me, so I gotta loosen him up a bit, all right?”

Charlie shrugged while the other three laughed. “Aww, poor innocent Charlie,” Caz said.

Quickly, while the guys were talking, Nick leaned close to Greg’s ear and whispered,  
“You have to act like I’m hurting you.” Then, louder, he said, “Don’t enjoy this too  
much, faggot.” With that, he eased two fingers into Greg’s ass. 

Even though he should have been expecting it, Greg’s first yell startled Nick. Greg  
caught him off guard by trying to pull away, and Nick tightened his grip on the leg he  
was holding to pull the man back under him. 

“I think you scared him, Tex,” Jacco said appreciatively. Nick turned around to wink at  
Jacco while he scissored his fingers inside Greg, trying to provide some preparation for  
what was to come. He brushed up against the prostate, and Greg gasped and arched his  
back. Nick swore silently, and tried to convey his contrition by moving his finger away  
from that sensitive spot, but he could see Greg responding to the manipulation of his  
body. Unsurprising, Nick reflected, if the meth was having the same kind of effect on  
Greg that it was on him. 

Again, Nick tried to gauge from Greg’s expression what he wanted, but Greg’s eyes were  
screwed tightly shut. In the state Nick was in, he certainly understood how sexual  
pleasure could block other sensations, and Greg should not have to suffer more than he  
needed to. With a silent plea that he was doing the right thing, Nick hooked his fingers to  
find the little bundle of nerves that could provide so much pleasure. Greg’s eyes flew  
open, and he moaned into the gag.

“Hey, this fag’s really enjoying himself,” Caz said, a note of accusation creeping into his  
tone.

“He won’t be for long,” Nick replied. “Just wait.” Hoping that Greg would pick up on the  
cue, he inserted another finger and jerked Greg’s leg back at the same time to make the  
movement look more violent than it was. Greg’s yell was mostly swallowed by the gag,  
but the high-pitched whimpers that followed cut through the air.

“I think he’s ready,” said Jacco. He took a condom out of his pocket and held it up. 

Nick stood, letting Greg drop back onto the mattress, and took the condom. Nick  
swallowed his shame at the fact that his erection was straining against his pants. The  
drugs, Nick told himself for the tenth time. He unbuttoned his fly and pulled aside his  
boxers to slick on the condom. He took a breath to steady himself, then put on the voice  
he’d heard from macho guys his whole life. “Ready, cocksucker? It’s time to experience  
a real man.”

This time, when he knelt on the mattress, Greg tried to kick him. “Woah there, little  
mare,” Nick said, almost playfully. He easily caught Greg’s ankle and hoisted his leg up.  
The other leg kicked ineffectually, and Greg swung his tied hands at Nick’s head. Nick  
leaned back to avoid the blow, laughing meanly.

Jacco stepped over quickly, grabbed Greg’s hands and pinned them on the mattress above  
Greg’s head. Even through the gag, Nick could distinguish, “please” and, “don’t” from  
Greg’s panicked pleading. Jacco smiled at Nick and gave him an eager nod. Nick felt his  
skin crawl, but he returned the nod. He positioned himself near Greg’s ass. He could feel  
the man shaking, and he rested his free hand on Greg’s naked belly in an affectionate,  
soothing gesture he hoped would be mistaken for controlling.

When Nick pushed in, Greg screamed and renewed his struggling. Nick tried not to  
consider how much Greg was faking and how much pain he was really in. Nick kept  
pushing his hips forward, slowly and steadily, trying to give Greg’s muscles time to  
adjust. He noticed that Greg, clever Greg, was struggling mostly with his upper body so  
that he wouldn’t accidentally impale himself on Nick’s cock too quickly. 

Once he was all the way in, Nick stopped for as long as he dared. The warm tightness  
around his cock was wonderful, and even through the latex, his skin felt super-sensitized.  
Each movement of Greg’s struggle sent a jolt of pleasure to Nick’s dopamine-saturated  
brain. Seized by the impulse to make Greg feel pleasure as well, Nick leaned down to  
catch a nipple gently in his teeth. Greg cried out sharply, but he arched his back a little,  
seating Nick’s cock more firmly inside of him, and Nick hoped that was a sign of  
acceptance, if not pleasure.

Clearly impatient, Caz moved around to the side of the mattress to get a better view, and  
Charlie and Marty crouched nearby. Jacco stroked Greg’s forehead and whispered to him.  
“I know you think you like taking it up the ass, faggot, but you’re wrong. After Tex here  
is done with you, you’ll wish you’d never heard of being queer.” Jacco nodded to Nick  
again.

Nick moved his hands to grip Greg’s hips, and started to thrust: shallow strokes which he  
made look more violent by moving his whole body. Greg screamed again, and Jacco  
covered his mouth and kept whispering into his ear. Nick leaned forward, changing his  
angle, and suddenly Greg struggled again, bucking wildly against the two men holding  
him. Nick slowed down, but Caz barked, “Don’t stop now.”

Nick kept thrusting, blocking out the comments of the other men egging him on, and  
focused on Greg. Beautiful Greg, lying naked under him, chest shining with sweat. Nick  
tried to shut out the sounds Greg was making: pitiful whimpering punctuated with  
occasional screams. He couldn’t. Greg’s cries hurt, but the pain was a dull throb, far  
away compared to the red-hot pleasure radiating from Nick’s groin. 

The pleasure built up like water, like waves washing away the power of rational thought.  
Each thrust into Greg brought Nick closer to something, and each time he pulled out he  
got further away. Sex had never been so intense, or so maddening. He needed more—he  
needed to be closer to Greg. He braced his elbows on either side of Greg, and breathed in  
the smell of Greg’s sweat. He leaned into Greg’s chest, felt the rapid rise and fall of  
frantic breathing, the tingle of hot skin against his bare arms. 

More contact. More. Nick wrapped one hand around Greg’s hard-on, trapped between  
their bodies, and stroked it roughly in time with his thrusting. Greg moaned into his gag  
and pressed his head back into the mattress. Nick looked up to judge Greg’s reaction, but  
caught Jacco’s lascivious stare instead, and looked away immediately from that cruel  
smile. 

Nick wanted desperately to kiss Greg, to convince him of his affection, to remove any  
doubt of his love, but he couldn’t, so he settled for violence. He sunk his teeth into Greg’s  
shoulder. Greg cried out, and Nick’s cock was squeezed hard as Greg’s body spasmed.  
The red-hot pleasure poured out of Nick, ripping through his body and leaving a  
throbbing numbness in its wake. It was only as his orgasm subsided, and he pulled out  
carefully, that he realized Greg had come, too. 

***************  
Nick told Jacco to drop him at the nearest bus stop. He hadn’t wanted to leave Greg, but  
couldn’t think of a way to justify staying. He has to be okay, Nick told himself a hundred  
times on the five-minute car ride. He will be okay. Nick had to will himself to listen  
when Jacco stopped him getting out of the car to explain about how to contact him and to  
congratulate him on his performance. He had to concentrate on not throwing up. 

Jacco leaned out the window before he drove off. “Almost forgot,” he said, and handed  
Nick his cell phone. As soon as Jacco’s Buick was out of sight, Nick sprinted with drug-  
fueled energy back to the alley door that led to the basement. Greg was still lying on the  
mattress, and Nick knelt gently next to him. He untied the gag. “Greg. Greggo. Hey.” He  
patted Greg’s cheek, and his eyes snapped open.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasped. 

Nick pulled his hand away as if he’d been burned. 

Greg’s eyes flashed hurt. “Don’t—don’t go. Nick, please. Just… Don’t touch me.”

Nick nodded, and swallowed hard. “I’m calling Gris. And an ambulance.”

“Nick, you can’t, we can’t-.” Greg stumbled to a stop, but his eyes were pleading.

“You need an ambulance,” Nick said. After a moment, Greg nodded. Nick hit the first  
speed dial button on his cell. 

“Grissom.” His boss’s even, confident greeting had never sounded more welcome. Or  
more terrifying.

“Gris.” He hated himself for the waver in his voice. “Gris, we need you.”

************


	2. Yield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg’s in trouble after an evening at the club, and Nick’s part of the problem. (Mirror version of Compelling)

We cannot conquer fate and necessity, but we can yield to them in such a manner as to be  
greater than if we could.  
–Walter S. Landor

************

I slam the door to my apartment with more force than necessary and immediately sink to  
the floor. “So, I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” Fucking genius line, Greggo. Where else  
would you see each other? Luckily Nick had run away before I could humiliate myself  
anymore. Of course, if Brass hadn’t needed him for some special assignment, maybe I  
could have finally managed to get out an invitation for drinks or something. Anything. 

Not that Nick would accept an invitation from me. Nick, who’s everybody’s favorite guy.  
Nick, who always saves the day. Nick, who probably has no idea about the fantasies that  
play through my mind in vivid detail whenever we’re in the same room. 

I head to my room to change clothes. I know it’s not healthy, but I don’t care. I won’t be  
the first guy to hit the club scene looking for a substitute for what he can’t have. It won’t  
be Nick, but it couldn’t be Nick. It will never be Nick.  
**************

My blood thumps in my ears along with the bass beat. I down a beer before sizing up the  
available selection. The club’s not packed on a Tuesday night, but there’re enough  
unattached guys trolling that I have a good chance of finding someone to go home with. I  
want someone who looks nothing like him. In fact, I’m not even thinking about him. This  
is me not thinking about Nick Stokes.

I head out to the dance floor. The guys around me are grinding to the shitty techno music,  
and I allow myself an ironic smile. I wonder what Nick and I would dance to. I try not to  
wonder. A guy is watching me from the edge of the dance floor. I keep eye contact with  
him, flirting as I dance, and when the DJ fades seamlessly into the next monotonous  
song, he comes to dance beside me.

He’s tall, and very blond, and his muscles are hard when I put my hands on his chest,  
dancing closer. He has a great body. Not as good as Nick’s—but I’m not thinking that. I  
think he’s into me, too, because when I offer to buy him a drink, he follows me to the bar  
and sits down next to me, smiling this cute, lopsided grin. Yeah, his smile’s cute, but-.  
Fuck it. I need this distraction. I’m a bit more forward than I usually am, but he’s not shy  
either. He puts a hand on my thigh, squeezes gently, and asks if I want to go back to his  
place. Fuck it.  
*********

Something jars me awake. My head hurts: feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. My cheek  
hurts, like I’ve taken a punch. Have I been in a fight? I can’t see, and then I feel that  
something’s wrapped around my head, covering my eyes: I’m blindfolded. I try to take  
the blindfold off, but my body won’t respond—my limbs feel detached, but I can wiggle  
my fingers. The club. I was at a club. The guy from the club. Stupid, Greg. What  
happened? Something in my drink? I don’t remember if he made me breathe something.  
Acetylene dichloride, maybe. That stuff can knock you out quickly. Or maybe acetic  
aldehyde. 

When sensation starts to return, I realize my wrists are bound. There’s other people  
around, making noise, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. I try to shake my head to clear  
it, but that’s a mistake—my temples are throbbing, and my ears buzz angrily. I moan.  
The sound doesn’t go past my lips. I can’t move my mouth: there’s something, tape,  
probably, covering it. 

Suddenly, there’s a weight on my chest, and a hand over the duct-tape on my mouth.  
Someone sitting on me. I try to push him off, but he’s heavy, and my limbs don’t work. A  
voice says, “Hey faggot. Hold still.” There’s someone else on the mattress, next to my  
head, and another hand on my face. I breathe in through my nose, sharply, and then I  
realize what they’ve done. 

My nose burns, and I try to pull my hands up, but I forgot about the guy sitting on my  
chest, pinning my arms. I can’t get enough air. I’m coughing into the tape as whatever  
drugs they gave me dissolve in my sinuses. The buzzing in my ears increases as I thrash  
my head from side to side, fighting for air.

The weight leaves my chest. They’re talking again, but the sound is far away, behind the  
buzzing, behind the burning, and I can’t make it out. For all I know, they could be  
speaking Laotian. I try to calm down, slow my breathing. I have to keep breathing. I can’t  
panic. The burning in my sinuses subsides, and my heart rate slows a bit once I have  
some oxygen. 

Someone comes close to me again, and suddenly I’m struggling to get my feet under me  
as I’m dragged by the hair. After a few steps I’m shoved to my knees, and then the  
blindfold’s gone. There’s only one light bulb in the room, but after total darkness, it  
seems bright, and I have to blink while my eyes adjust. There’s four guys, no, five,  
because one of them is holding me. The guy from the club is crouched in front of me,  
smiling. Three others are standing around behind him.

One of the guys looks like Nick, and when I look at him, his eyes widen like I scare him.  
He more than looks like Nick. He has the smile, the nose. The eyes. It is Nick. Standing  
not five feet away. Whatever they gave me couldn’t possibly work this fast. Meth or coke  
takes three to five minutes to hit the system if you snort it, and if this is a hallucination,  
it’s pretty fucking vivid. 

“He’s a little scrawny, Caz,” the Nick-look-alike says. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have  
thrown him back?”

It’s Nick’s voice, Nick’s gentle accent. It is Nick. Nick can’t be here. Nick can’t be part  
of this. I mean, he is from Texas. He was a frat boy. I bet he’s beat up some queers in his  
time. But he’s not like this. He can’t be like these guys. Nick loves the law. I know he  
does. There’s got to be some explanation. I have to look away, so I turn my attention to the floor. 

“Hey faggot,” Club Guy says, and snaps his fingers in front of my face. I’m not sure I’m  
happy that the buzzing in my ears is gone. “Listen up. You’re very lucky tonight. Do you  
know why?”

I have no idea, I think, but there’s no point in replying. I wonder, in a detached sort of  
way, if they’re planning to kill me no matter what I do, and if it would be better for me to  
get them to do it as soon as possible. I wonder if Nick will let them kill me.

The guy behind me jerks me by the hair and says, “Hey princess, the nice man asked you  
a question.”

“Fuck you,” I mutter into the tape. I figure they’ll get the spirit if not the content of my  
message. 

Club Guy smiles at me again, and keeps talking. “You’re lucky because you’re going to  
get saved tonight. We are giving you the opportunity to save yourself. Tonight, you’re  
going to learn why it’s not okay to be a faggot.”

My heart is pounding. I’ve heard lots of anti-homosexual rhetoric in my time, and I’ve  
gotten good at shrugging it off. I’m finding that it’s harder to shrug it off when you’re  
tied up and drugged. As I think that, panic overwhelms me, and I think I might vomit. I  
try to turn my head away, but Club Boy grabs my chin and pulls me back.

“We’re going to help you. One of these nice men here,” he gestures around the room, “Is  
going to show you why you don’t like taking it up the ass as much as you thought you  
did.”

They’re going to rape me. My heart kicks up another notch; maybe the drugs are starting  
to take effect. My stomach churns. If I vomit, I’ll probably choke on it. For a moment, I  
think that might not be a bad thing. I imagine the conversation after my autopsy. Robins  
would say, “Notice the petechial hemorrhaging." "Asphyxiation?” Grissom would  
ask. “Uh-huh. Obstructed airway.” How many times have I seen that exact scene? No.  
My coworkers are not going to have that conversation about me. I am going to live. My  
stomach settles.

The guy behind me says, “This is the participation part. You get to pick which one of us  
you want.”

Fuck that. I shake my head. “Aww,” says Club Boy. “He seemed so eager an hour ago.  
Now he doesn’t want to play.” Shame swells up inside me, but I tamp it down. I’ve  
heard all about the shit rape victims go through. The rape victim thinks it's her fault. Or  
his fault. My fault. This isn't my fault. The words "rape victim" march around my brain,  
and closing my eyes doesn't block them out.

“Listen, queer. We’re giving you a choice,” Club Boy’s saying. “We’d prefer to not all  
have to do this, so you get to pick who’s teaching you tonight. If you don’t pick, we all  
have to participate.”

Rape victim. Rape victim. I feel the panic rising again. I will not cry in front of them. I  
will not cry in front of Nick. AlCl4Na. Sodium tetracholoroaluminate. I discovered this  
my first year at Stanford: reciting chemical formulae helped me feel in control, calmed  
me down. I remember doing it for almost an hour before my interview for the Vegas  
Crime Lab. Mindlessly memorized and soothing. Mg2P2O7. Magnesium pyrophosphate. 

I hear the click of a gun safety coming off the moment before I feel a muzzle pressed to  
the back of my neck. I hold perfectly still. “Or maybe this one is just beyond  
rehabilitation,” Gunman says. “If he doesn’t want to help save himself, maybe we should  
just end it for him.” He won’t shoot me. Nick won’t let them kill me. Gunman leans  
down close to my ear and whispers. “I will shoot you if you give me a reason, faggot.”

Reason. Shit. What’s the reason that I’m not out having drinks right now with the Nick  
Stokes I have a crush on? Because he—He said he had to go see Brass and Grissom. He  
said they had a special assignment for him. I look at Nick. Undercover. That’s it. He’s  
undercover. That’s what he hasn’t done anything yet. Perfectly logical reason why Nick  
Stokes is watching this guy hold a gun to my head. Reason. C3H5N3O9 is propanetriol  
trinitrate, the accelerant for dynamite. Nick’s not going to let me get hurt. I’m not going  
to let Nick get hurt.

“Right then.” Club Guy steps away from me. “You have until three to point to your  
choice, and then my friend here is going to put you out of your misery. One.”

I close my eyes. Chloroform is CFCl2CF2. Or is it CFCl2CF2C2? Of course it’s not. It’s  
CFCl2CF2Cl. It’s inaudible through the gag, of course, but it makes me feel better to try  
to say it out loud, to hear the sounds in my throat, to know I’m still moving air.

“Two.”

The gun presses into my neck harder. A feeling of euphoric calm seeps into my brain, and  
my panic’s gone. FeS2 is pyrite. Fool’s gold. I know what I have to do.

“Three.”

I raise my hands to point at Nick. When I open my eyes, Nick looks like he’s been  
stabbed. I hope he sees that I’m calm, that I trust. I don’t want him to hurt. Club Guy pats  
me on the cheek, saying, “You’re on the road to recovery, faggot.” I let Gunman pull me  
to the mattress by the back of my shirt. He goes away, and Club Guy comes back.  
Gunman’s pulling Nick away, telling him something, but Club Guy pushes me onto my  
back and sits next to me. “I’m kinda sorry you didn’t pick me,” he whispers. “I bet you  
have a real sweet ass.” He looks over at Nick. “But are you sure he’s not one of you? I  
don’t know. I might need to give him some reeducation later.”

Dopamine. That’s what methamphetamines cause your brain to release. Ten times the  
amount of dopamine that sex produces. I know it’s just the chemicals in my brain, but it  
gives me this feeling like I’m strong. Strong enough for anger. I pick my head up, so his  
attention is on my face, then I bring my hands up with drug-enhanced force, crunching  
my palm into his nose. He’s screaming before I can get to my feet. 

I’ve only gone a few feet before I hear the gunshot. Ballistics evidence. Good. I stop. For  
a split second, I’m not sure if I’ve been shot. I know that stimulants can cover up pain,  
but I wait, and I can’t feel anything.

“I don’t have to miss,” says Gunman. “Stop fucking around, faggot.” 

Club Boy screams, “That fucker broke my nose! God damnit!” I want to laugh, but I  
don’t. C9H13N is the formula for meth. Cocaine is C17H21NO4. I’m not so hopped up that  
I want to die. I don’t doubt that Gunman would shoot me. I don’t know if Nick could stop  
it. He would stop it. He would, if he could.

Gunman tells the redhead, Charlie, he calls him, to put me back, and Charlie grabs me by  
the shoulder and pushes me back onto the mattress. “You cocksucker,” Club Guy growls  
before the short guy pulls him away from me. 

“Strip him,” Gunman says, and goes back to talking to Nick. The blood rushes in my  
ears, and my heart rate is up again from the adrenaline flooding my system. Charlie is  
kneeling at the foot of the mattress, untying my shoes. Club Guy screams again when  
Shorty pulls his nose back into place, and, again, I suppress the absurd urge to laugh. At  
least I hurt him. 

Once my shoes and socks are off, Charlie unzips my jeans, and the panic starts to come  
back. C3H5(NO3)3 is nitroglycerine, I tell myself, but the panic doesn’t go away. I kick,  
and it makes stripping me a lot harder, until Gunman throws Club Guy the 9mm. 

“Bitch, you know I’m not going to hesitate to use this, so simmer down,” Club Guy says.  
Staring down the barrel of a gun somehow calms me the way chemical formulae  
couldn’t, and I lay still while Charlie finishes stripping me. I close my eyes so I don’t  
have to watch Nick’s reaction to my body. 

Nick’s reaction to my body is the wrong thing to think about. I imagine him looking at  
me, enjoying my body, with lust—with love in his eyes, and then I imagine him looking  
at me with disgust, with shame. I can’t get enough air; the panic’s coming back. 

Charlie says, “Um, Jacco, I think he’s having trouble breathing.” 

“Yeah, that shit’s hard on the nose,” Nick says. My panic grows. They made him take  
meth. He snorted meth. Or coke. Whichever. Straight-edge Nick Stokes. Why? Why the  
hell would he do that? I’m breathing fast, but I couldn’t draw enough air. Nick snorted  
meth.

“He can’t breathe,” Charlie says again. “Dudes, I don’t want him to suffocate.”

“Calm down, okay. Take the tape off, if you’re so concerned,” says Gunman. “Gag him,  
though. Hey, where’s that t-shirt you got off him?”

I watch Charlie tear a strip off of my Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt. Club Guy gets in my  
face again, and says, “Don’t even think about screaming, or I’ll shoot you in the knee,  
and we’ll try again, okay?” I nod. I like my knees. I like breathing. O2 is oxygen.  
Obviously. Club Guy rips off the duct tape, and the sting is nothing compared to my  
relief when I can gulp in air by the mouthful. Charlie slips the new gag in my mouth and  
ties it, but I can breathe. 

“Hey. You feeling it?” Gunman is saying to Nick. I breathe, and I look at Nick. His  
pupils are dilated, his breath is coming fast, and then he looks at me. Looks at me with  
appreciation and desire. I stop breathing for a moment, because I’m not sure I saw what I  
did, and there’s no way Nick wants me, too. Drugs, Greg. He doesn’t want you. He had  
to take drugs to make sure he could perform. Now I see shame in his eyes. He must hate  
me. Nick looks away, and I make myself breathe again. 

Club Guy says, “Yeah, he’s feeling it. Go ahead, Tex. Show us how it’s done.” 

Nick kneels at the edge of the mattress, and touches me gently on my naked ankle. The  
sensation is heat, spreading in a wave. Psychostimulants stimulate the central nervous  
system, causing greater alertness. I’m alert. Nick’s looking at me again. I wish he’d stop,  
and I wish he’d look at me forever. I try to read his eyes, but he turns away when  
Gunman says, “Go on.”

Nick says, “It’s just… weird having an audience.” Again, I feel the perverse desire to  
laugh. N2O is nitrous oxide: laughing gas.

“Fair enough,” says Gunman. “Back off for now, guys. We’ll give you a little space to  
get started.”

Nick runs his hand up my leg, and I shiver as a wave of heat and tingling follows his  
movement. He looks pensive, troubled, and I realize how distasteful this must be for him.  
I give him the barest of encouraging nods, and as he lifts my leg up, I realize what he  
must have been considering. I’m grateful he didn’t flip me over. As disturbing as it is, I’d  
rather see him than not. He spits on his fingers but doesn’t insert them yet, and I try to  
relax. Relax. Cylobenzaprine is a muscle relaxant: C20H21NEHCl.

“Come on, just do it,” Charlie says

“Hey, haven’t you ever fucked a girl this way?” Nick snaps at him, and I’m surprised to  
hear that harsh tone come out of his mouth. “It’s supposed to hurt him, not me, so I gotta  
loosen him up a bit, all right?”

The others laugh, and Club Boy is saying something, but Nick leans close to my ear and  
whispers, “You have to act like I’m hurting you,” then says “Don’t enjoy this too much,  
faggot.” I’m glad for his warning. Pain. I’ll just imagine it’s role-play. I like a little rough  
stuff as much as the next guy. Let’s just pretend I’ve already experienced what a gentle  
and giving lover Nick can be, and we’re having a little friendly S&M experiment. Lady  
Heather would be so proud. Just a little kinky fun. Let’s just imagine I haven’t been  
kidnapped and tied up and drugged and threatened with a gun. Let’s pretend Nick would  
ever consider making love to me of his own free will.

Nick eases his fingers in, and I yelp loudly, playing the part. I can’t come on too strong,  
not yet. He’s being careful. I make a show of trying to pull away, but Nick, of course, is  
stronger, and pulls me back under him easily. The others laugh, and Gunman makes some  
comment, but blood is roaring in my ears, and my face is flushed as I try not to moan.  
Nick spreads his fingers inside of me, and suddenly I gasp as sparks shoot to my groin. I  
think I might have gone blind for a moment, or forgotten how to see, just from his fingers  
brushing against a bundle of nerves sending chemical signals of pleasure. Warmth is  
pooling in my groin, and I blush again as my cock begins to harden. 

I close my eyes tightly. Think calm, unsexy thoughts, Greg. Think about showing them  
you’re in pain. Think about—I’m caught off guard when Nick presses his fingers firmly  
against my prostate, and I have to open my eyes to see him. His eyes are hazel, and that’s  
all I can see. I think I moan, but it’s hard to hear anything. Someone must have said  
something, because Nick replies, “He won’t be for long. Just wait.”

He shoves another finger in beside his others as he pulls my leg back to make the  
operation look more impressive. I yell again—Whatever you do, don’t moan. I whimper  
instead, high and desperate, as Nick’s fingers touch that point of ecstasy again and again.  
Then Nick’s gone, I’m empty, and painfully hard. 

Nick’s putting on a condom, and the others are watching us eagerly. This wasn’t how it  
was supposed to be. I want Nick to want me, not to have to fuck me—not to have to save  
me. I know hundreds more chemical formulas, but not one comes to mind, and I’m angry  
again. When Nick returns to kneel on the mattress, I try to kick him, but he says, “Whoa  
there, little mare,” in that warm Texas accent, and catches and holds my ankle. It’s not  
supposed to be like this. He laughs and dodges easily when I swing my tied arms at his  
face, and then Gunman has my arms pinned above me. 

The anger goes out of me then, replaced by fear. I know they can’t understand me with  
the gag, but it makes me feel better to take action, so I beg. “Please don’t do this,” comes  
out more mostly vowels, but when Nick looks at me sharply I can tell he understood  
some. Talking is destroying his calm and mine, but as happens to me so often,  
the words won’t stop: they come pouring out of me faster and less intelligibly, taking my  
bravery and resolve with them. Nick positions himself to enter me, and I’m shaking: I  
want to blame the drugs, but I’m terrified. Nick puts his hand on my abdomen, and it  
calms me somewhat. It’s almost like the gesture of a lover.

Nick begins pushing into me and I scream from deep in my stomach. I thrash my head  
and arms around, but try to keep still enough to let Nick control the pace. I can’t watch  
him, but when I close my eyes I see the jagged red edges of painful pleasure that radiate  
from Nick’s cock. I realize that I’m making whining sounds in the back of my throat, but  
I can’t stop until Nick is finally still, sheathed inside of me. 

I can look at him then, and again, I think I see desire, and then he lowers his head,  
trapping my right nipple in his teeth. At the last moment, I transform my moan into a  
pained yelp, but I arch my back and press against Nick, impaling myself the tiniest bit  
deeper. His eyes widen. Then the others come closer. I can hear Club Guy’s breath, feel  
the weight of his predatory glare. 

Gunman pulls my head back by the hair to make me look at him. “I know you think you  
like taking it up the ass, faggot, but you’re wrong,” he says. “After Tex here is done with  
you, you’ll wish you’d never heard of being queer.” I feel Nick’s hands clutch my hips,  
and he starts to fuck me. He can’t be too gentle, not with the others watching so closely,  
and I scream as pain shoots up my spine. 

Gunman covers my mouth with his hand, and my screaming trails off into muted  
whimpering. “See, queer,” Gunman whispers to me, his voice a jarring counterpoint to  
the slap of skin-on-skin. “You like that? Do you?” I shake my head no. “See, this is why  
being queer is wrong. It wasn’t meant to feel good. It’s meant to hurt.”

Suddenly Nick adjusts his angle and bumps the spot inside me that sets all my nerves on  
fire, that creates an explosion of pleasure. I scream, muffled by Gunman’s hand, and I  
struggle again, fucking myself onto Nick’s cock, super-sensitized skin sliding over latex,  
desperate for more contact. Nick slows down, and it takes all my self-control to keep  
from bucking my hips to control the pace while I wait for Nick to speed up.

My ears are buzzing again, or maybe that’s the roar of blood coming and going so fast  
it’s turned to buzzing. My world has shrunk to this mattress, two bodies, mine and his, his  
skin, his cock inside me, my own aching erection, the smell of his sweat, the harsh sound  
of his breathing. He lowers himself close to me: my sweat sticks to his shirt. I can smell  
his aftershave now. I want to touch him, but Gunman holds my arms.

One of Nick’s hands wraps around my cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. My skin  
burns where he touches it, and I think I might black out. I press my head back, moan, and  
then I’m crying. Shaking and crying, and then Nick’s teeth find the muscle where my  
neck meets my shoulder, and he bites down, hard. I scream, with his teeth in my muscle,  
his cock buried inside me, his hand squeezing my cock, and I scream while I come, and  
my blood is roaring in my ears.  
******************

I don’t know how long I’m alone after they leave. I hurt, and every sensation seems  
enhanced. I can feel a lump in the mattress under my hip, hear cars passing outside; I can  
smell sex and Nick’s sweat on me. My shoulder throbs. I can’t see the bite, but I think he  
broke the skin. My ass is a blurry, red ache; I don’t know if I’m bleeding. I’m finding it  
difficult to concentrate. When Nick comes back, I’m curled up on the mattress, and I  
close my eyes, suddenly afraid again.

“Greg,” Nick says, from somewhere close. “Greggo. Hey.” 

He touches my face, and his hand seems like a hot needle against my skin. “Don’t touch  
me,” comes out of my mouth. Nick jerks his hand away, and his eyes go dark. 

That’s not what I meant. Damnit. “Don’t—don’t go,” I say, and I sit up gingerly. “Nick,  
please. Just… Don’t touch me.”

He doesn’t leave. “I’m calling Gris,” he says. “And an ambulance.”

Suddenly I imagine the rest of the team working this scene, and I feel cold. I realize how  
a criminal must feel when they realize the impossibility of covering up their crime.  
“Nick, you can’t, we can’t--,” I stammer. 

“You need an ambulance,” Nick says. 

I do. He probably does, too. And he’s going to have to report eventually. It can be okay.  
He protected me. I can protect him. I nod.

He takes out his cell phone and hits a couple buttons. “Gris?” He says. “Gris, we need  
you.”  
*************


	3. Unravelling, Part I

Oh what a tangled web we weave  
When first we practice to deceive.  
\- Sir Walter Scott. 

 

*********  
 **Nick**

I snap my cell phone shut and put it back in my pocket, and I try not to look at Greg, sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, shivering. “Do you want your clothes?” I ask.

 

Greg shakes his head. “They’re evidence.”

 

“Yeah, but-.” I shut up. I understand how focusing on procedure, on evidence, can be soothing, but that doesn’t stop me from looking around for something Greg can cover up with. There’s nothing, so I shrug out of my jacket and hold it out to him. For a moment I’m afraid he doesn’t want anything of mine, but then he reaches out for it. He gasps when he wraps it around himself, and I realize why: the meth is still in full effect, and every movement of cloth against my skin feels like shards of glass on over-sensitized nerve-endings: he must be feeling the effects too.

 

The two of us are sitting silently on the mattress when Grissom bursts in. He looks at us, taking in the situation with his trademark stoicism and perceptiveness. He’s obviously trying to decide what needed to be done first. He finally settles on asking Greg, “Are you hurt?” 

 

“I’ll wait for the ambulance,” Greg says.

“Do you need a rape kit?” Grissom asks quietly. 

Greg says nothing. I don’t know what I expected when this moment came, but I know I it’s time to take responsibility. “Gris, it was--.”

“Shut up, Nick,” Greg says sharply. I look at him, and he’s more serious, more commanding than I’ve ever seen him. I look at the floor.

“It was what, Nick?” Gris asks.

“Nothing,” Greg says, before I can decide what to reply. Grissom frowns, but the sound of sirens approaching pulls him away, outside, to flag down the EMTs. Greg turns to me and says, “Don’t tell them what happened with us, okay?”

He sounds almost angry, which I can understand, but I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen. “Greg, how--? I mean, what--?” 

“Please,” he says, and I know that I have to do what he asks. I owe him that much. I owe him whatever he asks of me.  
*******************

 

**Greg**

 

When I wake up, my head still feels stuffed with cotton. I’m getting sick of that feeling. I feel something against my wrist, and start to panic before I figure out it’s just tape for the IV, and not rope. “Hey, it’s okay,” someone says, and I pry my eyes open to see Grissom standing next to my bed. “Greg, it’s me.”

“Grissom. Hey,” I say, and my voice sounds hoarse. Gris is already pouring a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. 

“You’re at Desert Palms. You’ve been out almost twenty-four hours,” he explains, and hands me the cup. “They had to put you under for stitches.” I sip the water silently, and try not to panic again as it comes home to me that my boss knows about my injuries; he probably put together how I got them. Grissom pats my hand, and sits down in the chair next to my bed. I notice there’s a book, _The Secret Lives of Aphids_ , sitting on the nightstand next to the water.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

Grissom shrugs. “A few hours. I called the emergency contact number in your file, but it   
was your apartment.” 

“Oh…yeah.” I blush. So pathetic, I don’t even have anyone to call in case of an emergency. My boss has to wait at my bedside. 

“We got your blood work back. Looks like you didn’t contract anything,” Gris continues.

I blink stupidly. Contract anything? I feel the blood drain from my face. Like AIDS. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought about that? I’ve had post-rape crisis training. But… I don’t feel like a rape victim. I haven’t been thinking about my injuries, or STDs, or finding the perp because I haven’t been raped. Or if I have, then so has Nick. Nick. Where’s Nick?

“It can sometimes take up to six months to be sure you’re in the clear for HIV,” Grissom is saying. “So they’ll want to retest you later. Greg, do you remember if your attacker used protection?”

I quickly push away thoughts of Nick slicking on a condom and kneeling between my legs. “Yeah, condom,” I whisper. 

“They found gamma hydroxybutyrate in your system, which is probably how they knocked you out. And there’s something else,” Grissom says, and I can tell he’s working out how to ask about it. “They also found traces of methamphetamines. Do you know why that would be?”

I close my eyes, and I’m in the dark. I can feel a weight on my chest, a hand over my mouth. _*Hold still, faggot.*_ I can’t get a deep enough breath--. Then my eyes are open, I’m back in the brightly-lit hospital room, and Grissom’s hand is my shoulder.   
“Greg? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah… I just--.” I shake my head, and remind myself to tread carefully. “They made me snort something. I didn’t know what it was. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see.” I concentrate on taking deep breaths. 

“Okay. It’s okay. You’re safe.” Grissom squeezes my shoulder gently, and I feel a lump form in my throat. I’ve never seen him so caring, so concerned, not even after the explosion in the lab. I hate the feeling that I’m deceiving him. 

“Where’s Nick?” I ask, as much to change the subject as because I need to know. 

Grissom gives me a funny look. “Down the hall, in fact. Recovering from the aftereffects of a heavy dose of meth.” He waits for a moment, probably hoping that I’ll volunteer some information. I keep silent. Nick’s here. He’s close. “Greg, are you ready to give a statement? I told Brass I’d call him when you were ready. Or Sophia could do it, if you’d rather.” 

He’s trying to help. He’s trying to be supportive. I hate what I’m about to do. “I’m not giving a statement,” I say flatly.

Gris blinks at me, and cocks his head to the side the way he does when looking at seemingly contradictory evidence. I can tell he’s wrestling with himself and, as I expected, criminologist wins out over concerned boss. “Greg, I have to know what happened in that basement. Nick won’t tell us, and I think you know why.”

I don’t say anything for a moment; I don’t want to lie outright. “I don’t want Nick to get hurt,” I say. That, at least, is the absolute truth.

“The only thing that won’t hurt him is the truth,” Gris says seriously. 

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. If only that were true. If only someone had told me that before last night. Grissom’s staring at me intently, as if I’m a witness whose story doesn’t agree with the evidence. Which I am. I feel queasy at the thought that I’ve suddenly become something foreign, an unknown quantity. I try not to think about whether he’ll ever trust me again. “I can’t give a statement.”

Grissom shakes his head, and I know he’s disappointed. “Okay. We’ll follow the evidence.”  
*************

**Sara**

 

Sara clicked off her UV light when she heard the basement door open, and turned around to snap at whoever was disturbing her crime scene. She swallowed her remark, and smiled instead when she saw it was Warrick. “Rick. What are you doing here? I thought you had tonight off.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Warrick said with a sigh as he set down his kit. “Gris called me in. Greg’s taking a sick day, so it was either me or Nicky, and I got the short straw.”

“Poor baby,” Sara said sarcastically. “I was pretty pissed myself when I was the only one to show up to the lab tonight. Gil called to tell me he and Catherine were already at a scene and that Greggo was out, and he sent me here. I’m glad he came to his senses and called you in.”

“I’m not,” Warrick muttered, and snapped on a pair of gloves.

“Well, at least there’s no body to process this time,” Sara said. “Grissom says kidnapping and rape. The vic’s at Desert Springs.”

“So shouldn’t one of us be there? Collecting the rape kit, and a statement, perhaps? Or at the kidnapping scene?” Warrick asked.

Sara shook her head, “Gris said he and Cath will take care of it on the way back from… wherever.”

“Okay,” Warrick shrugged. “Then let’s do this.”

Warrick had finished taking DNA samples from the beer bottles and bagging them as evidence by the time Sara had the alley processed. Sara took pictures of the discarded rope and duct tape before Warrick bagged it, and then did the same for the clothes.

Warrick held up a ripped Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt before bagging it. “Looks like something Greg would wear.”

Sara spared it a glance. “Nah. Not gaudy enough. Speaking of which, do you suppose he’s really sick, or just wanted to watch the World Cup?

“Greg? Nah. He’s not the type to play hooky. He’s not the type to break any rules, in fact. At least, not now that he’s a real live CSI Level One.” Warrick smiled fondly. “You ready to tackle this mattress?”

Sara narrowed her eyes at Warrick. “I was looking at it before you came in, and with the amount of fluids on that thing, I’d rather not touch it, much less tackle it. You take samples, and I’ll fingerprint the door.”

“You’re so generous,” Warrick grumbled.  
*****************

 

**Nick**

 

Nick fidgeted nervously as he stood just out of sight behind the nurse’s station, keeping watch on Greg’s door. _I feel like a criminal,_ he thought. _And I should. I am a criminal. I’m a rapist._ He repressed the impulse to vomit for what seemed like the twentieth time that night, then ducked his head hastily when he saw Grissom step out of Greg’s room. 

Nick was out of his hiding place and standing by Greg’s door as soon as the elevator doors had closed behind his boss. He took a few deep breaths, then eased the door open and slid inside. Greg was turned on his side, facing away from the door, and Nick couldn’t tell whether he was awake or asleep. 

“Greg?” he said softly. He was half-afraid and half-hopeful that there would be no answer.

“I'm awake,” came Greg’s voice, slightly muffled. “Come on in.”

Nick stayed pressed against the door. “It's me... It's Nick.”

“I know,” Greg said, and rolled over so he could make eye contact. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

“I...," Nick faltered, feeling close to tears himself. "I'll go."

Greg shook his head, and wiped his eyes with the back of his non-IV’d hand. “Come in, and lock the door behind you.”

Nick turned the lock, then took a few halting steps toward Greg's bed. He stopped several feet away, putting the chair between him and the bed like a barricade. “Greg, I need to-.”

Greg cut him off. “Don't. I know what you're going to say, so don't.” Nick shut his mouth. Greg pulled himself into a sitting position and gestured for Nick to take the chair. Nick sat gingerly, and one of Papa Olaf’s expressions came to Greg’s mind to describe Nick’s state: nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. _He feels worse about what happened than I do_ , Greg realized. He cast about for a neutral topic. “Has Grissom interviewed you?"

“No,” Nick said softly. “Catherine's been sitting with me. She's been asking questions. I didn’t say anything,” he added quickly. “And Brass came in this morning.” Nick leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Greg, they're going to figure out what I did. Our team's more than good enough to put the evidence together."

Greg was silent for a moment, trying to imagine what was going through Nick’s mind. _He’d better not be planning anything stupid,_ Greg thought. Then he asked, "What do you think will happen?"

“I don’t know,” Nick said miserably. “You’ll be fine. You’re bouncing right back. You’ll be back to work in a few weeks. Days, even.”

Greg eyed his friend warily. “And you?”

 _I will not cry,_ Nick told himself fiercely. _Will not._ “That depends. I mean, rape carries a mandatory sentence of twenty-five years, so--.”

“No,” Greg said firmly. “You didn’t rape me, Nick.”

Nick covered his face with his hands and said nothing. 

Greg leaned over to grab Nick’s hand and pull it onto the bed so he could hold it. “I don’t know what you think you could have done to get us out of that situation, but you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“How can you say that to me, after what I did? Greg--.”

“If it weren’t for you, things could have been a lot worse. I’d probably be dead, Nick,” Greg said seriously, ducking his head to make Nick look him in the eye. “And if I was raped, then so were you.” 

Nick blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Did you want to have sex with me?” Greg asked.

“Not like that!” Nick blurted out, then, realizing what his wording implied, looked horrified. 

Greg felt a peculiar tightening in his chest as Nick blushed furiously. _Could I have been so wrong?_ he thought, bewildered. He would have said something, but both men froze at a knock on the door.

“It’s Catherine,” came a voice from the other side. The door knob rattled. "Greg? Why is this door locked? Greg, answer me!"

Greg snapped out of his stupor. "I'm fine," he called. He gave Nick a nod, and the Texan went to unlock the door.

Catherine was shocked into silence when Nick opened the door for her, and she looked immediately to Greg. 

"What are you doing here?" Catherine sputtered at Nick when she regained her voice. "I just went to get some coffee; I thought you were asleep."

“Sorry,” said Nick, his brow creased with hurt. “I… I guess I didn’t know you wanted me to stay put.”

“No, it’s fine,” Catherine said quickly. “I just--. It’s fine. Wasn’t Gil here?” She turned to Greg.

“Just left,” Greg supplied. “Did you need something?”

“Well, actually…” Catherine held up her field kit. “I wondered if… I know you didn’t let them do a rape kit, but I thought maybe you’d let me make a cast of that bite on your shoulder.”

Greg’s hand went to his left shoulder, almost protectively. He didn’t look at Nick. “No, that’s okay.”

“Greg--,” Catherine began.

“Listen, Cath.” Greg sighed. About to alienate another friend, he thought. “I know you’re trying to help me, but this is not the way to go about it.”

“Do you want to catch the guy that did this, or not?” Catherine asked gently.

“I can’t--. I just can’t do this right now, Cath,” Greg said. To his embarrassment, tears that he thought had run out now began to fall again. Nick grabbed Greg’s hand and squeezed gently.

Catherine set down her case and walked around the bed to hold Greg’s other hand. “Then forget it, Greggo. It’s okay. Sara and Warrick are at the crime scene right now. They’ll find the son of a bitch that did this. Don’t worry.”

Greg let out a strangled sob, and couldn’t help turning to look at Nick. Whatever he saw in Greg’s eyes made Nick turn and fairly run from the room. Catherine watched him go, then turned back to Greg in concern. She couldn’t figure out why he had suddenly gone so pale.  
************

 

**Sara**

 

“Sara!” Wendy called from the door to her lab, waving her hand to get the CSI’s attention. “Sara, I have your results.” Sara walked over to meet her, and Wendy lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Are these… Are these from a crime scene?”

“Yeah,” Sara said slowly, squinting in confusion at the new DNA tech. “Where else would they be from?”

Wendy looked around nervously. “And you didn’t… I mean, Greg wasn’t at the scene, was he? He’s off tonight, right?”

“Wendy, what’s wrong with you?” Sara asked.

Wendy pulled Sara into the lab and pointed at a readout of DNA results that Sara couldn’t decipher. “The blood from the mattress came back compliance.”

“Someone in the department?” 

“Yeah,” Wendy said. “Greg Sanders.”

Sara shook her head. “How can that be?”

“That’s not all. Come here.” Wendy led Sara over to a computer printout of results for other samples. “There were six distinct contributions in the semen samples you lifted from the mattress. Some of them seemed pretty old, but at least one was fresh. That was the only one was in the system, and it’s the same as the epithelials on the rope, tape, and gag.” Wendy pointed to a computer screen where Greg Sander’s information was   
displayed. “Greg’s.”

“So that means--?”

“One more thing,” Wendy said, holding up a finger. “The beer bottles. One of the DNA samples also came back compliance.” She hesitated. “Sara, Nick’s DNA was on one of the bottles. Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders were both at the scene.”

Sara grabbed Wendy’s arm and leaned in close. “Have you told anyone about this?” she asked softly. Wendy shook her head. “Don’t say a word to anyone. I mean it. I’m calling Grissom. Right now.”   
********************


	4. Unravelling, Part II

For nothing is secret that shall not be made manifest; neither anything hid that shall not   
be known. – Luke 8:17

 

*****************

**Grissom**

 

Grissom saw Nick duck into the emergency exit stairwell just as he came around the   
corner with coffee. Frowning, he picked up his pace, pushing the coffee into Catherine’s hands as she poked her head out of Greg’s room. “Stay with Greg,” he said shortly as he made for the stairwell.

The next floor down was pediatrics, and Grissom found Nick sitting, head in hands, in a deserted waiting room wallpapered with dancing puppies. “Nicky,” he called softly. Nick looked up at his boss; his brown eyes were dry, but dark with pain. Grissom approached him slowly, with a deceptively casual step. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Nick looked at Grissom for a long moment. His voice caught and broke in his throat at first, but on his second try he managed to produce words. “I’m sorry I let you down.”  
Grissom furrowed his brow. “How’d you do that?”

Nick smiled, and Grissom winced to see that beautiful smile used as an expression of pain. “You sent me out there, you trusted me to make sure nothing bad would happen, so we could catch these guys, and I failed. Worse than that…” Nick trailed off.

“Then whatever happened is my fault as much as yours,” Grissom said, and sat down next to Nick. “If I sent you out there unprepared, and something bad happened, that’s on me, Nicky.” Nick looked at him sharply. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of if something went wrong. Just tell me what happened, and we’ll take it from there.”

Nick gave Grissom a searching look, then stood up and walked to the edge of the room, where he stared down the dark hallway. “Grissom, I did something terrible. Really, truly terrible. I can’t tell you. I promised. But the evidence will tell you, and I wanted you to hear it from me first. So, it’s true,” Nick said, his voice flat and emotionless. 

“What’s true?” Grissom pressed.

“What the evidence says.”

“Evidence doesn’t lie, Nicky,” Grissom said firmly. He stood and started toward Nick. “Whatever is says or doesn’t say about you--.”

“I raped Greg.”

Grissom stopped and held very still for a moment. Nick looked to his boss, trying to read his reaction. Then he turned abruptly and started for the stairwell. Grissom caught up with him in a few steps and grabbed his arm. “Wait.” Nick wouldn’t look at him, but he stopped and stood passively. “I don’t understand,” Grissom said. Nick just shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He pulled away when Grissom’s cell phone chirped. 

“Grissom,” he said curtly, keeping one eye on Nick, who was staring at his shoes. “Yeah. I’ll be right there.” Grissom took longer than necessary to put his phone back into its holder, trying to formulate something to say. The silence began to stretch uncomfortably.

“You have to go,” Nick said at last.

“Yeah,” said Grissom. 

Nick moved a few steps away, stopped, and turned back. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s not me you should apologize to,” Grissom said gently, and walked away.  
*******************

When Grissom arrived back at the lab, Warrick and Sara were camped out in his office. He shut the door carefully before sitting at his desk and folding his hands in front of him. He noted, unsurprised, that Sara had on her puzzled face, and Warrick looked like he very much wanted to hit someone. “So, I take it you found out Nick and Greg were at your crime scene?” he asked without preamble.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Warrick barked, jumping up from his chair. Sara managed to sit still, but she fixed Grissom with an intense glare.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Grissom said carefully. “And I wanted you to see what the evidence said before you got personally involved. Since I already knew, I wouldn’t be able to process the evidence objectively.” 

Warrick grumbled and went to lean against the far wall.

“It’s not fair to not tell us when one of our own is involved in a case,” Sara said, clearly trying to keep a civil tone. “We have the right to decide whether we’re too personally involved to work a case, don’t we?”

“That’s a catch-22, and you know it, Sara,” said Grissom with a half-smile. “And there’s nothing else either of you could have done, even if you’d known.”

“How about be there for them?” Warrick asked through clenched teeth. “Where are they now?”

Grissom hesitated. “Greg and Nick are both in the hospital.”

“What?” Warrick said angrily, and Sara narrowed her eyes.

Grissom held up his hand to prevent more discussion. “Can we just share our   
information, please? We need to put together what happened in that basement. You tell me what you got from the crime scene, and I’ll tell you what else I know.”

Warrick took a deep breath and sat down again. Sara opened a file folder she’d brought in with her. They both locked their emotions away behind masks of professionalism. “We found lots of Greg’s DNA,” she said. “On the clothes, tape, and rope found at the scene. And…” She hesitated for a moment. “On a mattress at the scene.”

Grissom raised an eyebrow. “Blood?”

“Blood and semen,” Sara said uncomfortably.

“Also on the tape was a white powder; trace came back methamphetamine,” Warrick added.

“Both their tox screens were positive for methamphetamines,” Grissom said pensively.

Warrick’s brow furrowed in concern. “ _Nick_ and _Greg_ ’s blood came back positive for meth?”

Grissom nodded. 

“Our boys aren’t tweakers,” Warrick said fiercely. He couldn’t stop himself from jumping up again, this time beginning to pace the small office. 

“I didn’t say they were,” Grissom said with infuriating calmness. “Here’s what I know. Last night Brass and I asked Nick to take on a special assignment.” Warrick stopped pacing to turn his attention to this new information. “We sent him undercover to track an anti-homosexual group that’s been operating in the Vegas area.”

“You sent Nick _undercover_?” Sara said incredulously. “I mean, I know he used to be a cop, but…” She shook her head. “What was he supposed to do?”

“This group was--.” Grissom considered how to phrase his explanation. It was suddenly becoming harder to form words as he thought about the situation he’d sent Nick into. “They abduct and rape a target, intending to cure the victim of his homosexual tendencies.”

Warrick and Sara exchanged a silent look. “I’ve worked some of those crime scenes,” Warrick said softly. “They’ve been operating for months, and we haven’t caught up with them. And you sent our Nick out there to go toe to toe with these guys?”

“Wait—,” Sara broke in. “You sent Nick? Then how did Greg-?” Sara stared at Grissom, willing him to tell her she was wrong. “No.”

Grissom looked at his desk. “He’s not badly hurt, physically. Two stitches, and some cuts and bruises. They think he didn’t contract anything.”

“Contract anything?” Warrick said. “How would he have--?” A look of horror snapped into place as Warrick realized how Greg had been hurt. “No. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Think about what the evidence is saying, Rick,” Grissom said gently. “Pretend for a second that we don’t know the people involved.”

“No.” Warrick was up again, pacing. “Nick was there. You said you sent Nick. His DNA was in that room. He was there. So how could anything have happened to Greg? How?”

“No,” Sara said suddenly. Grissom and Warrick both turned to her, surprised to see tears glinting in her eyes. “I don’t want to hear this. Any of this.” She got up quickly and left the office. They watched her go. After a moment, Warrick sat down again.

“They won’t tell me what happened,” Grissom said. There was a strange note in his voice: sadness, and something else Warrick didn’t recognize.

“Maybe there’s a good reason for that,” said Warrick.

“Maybe,” Grissom shrugged. “We still have to work the case.”

Warrick nodded. “We’ll find the people who hurt them,” he said, and there was a sharp edge to his voice. “Tell them we’ll find out who’s responsible.”  
*****************

 

**Greg**

 

I stand at the door to Nick’s room a long time before walking in, and for even longer I stand there in the dark, watching him sleep. He’s sprawled on his stomach, head turned to the side, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. The sun’s just coming up, and the rosy light from the window falls on his face. Nick is a beautiful man. I pad over to bed and gently grasp the hand that’s outside the covers. 

He blinks sleepily, and smiles when he recognizes me. But then he pulls his hand away, sits up abruptly, and the smile is replaced with a haunted, almost frightened look. “What are you doing out of bed?” he says quickly.

I take a deep breath and let it out. Best to do this quickly, like taking off a Band-Aid. “Listen, okay. I just need a straight answer, and I need you to understand that the only thing that won’t hurt me is the truth. Okay? The truth.”

Nick blinks in confusion. “What--? Greg, I don’t--.”

“What you said earlier…” 

Nick winces. “I didn’t mean--.” He throws off the covers and gets up, putting the bed between me and him. “Look, I know the last thing you need to hear right now is… How can you even look at me?” he asks miserably.

I circle around the bed, and Nick backs up. “I just need to find out something. I need to know the real truth,” I say, holding my hands up to show I’m not threatening. As if Nick Stokes had anything to fear from me. 

Nick’s against the wall now, literally backed into a corner, and he’s looking at me like he thinks I’m going to hit him. “Greg, whatever you think--.”

“Let me finish, okay. Before all this, did you--?” Damn it. His eyes have this weird, far away look, and I can’t even find the right words to ask him what I need to ask him. “Were you ever--? About me. I mean, was there--? I need the truth.” 

He knows what I mean, and he stands there a minute with me just looking at him before he can bring himself to answer. “Yes, all right?” he says, throwing the words at me as if daring me to contradict him. “I was in love with you before.” 

We stand there in silence, just breathing and staring at each other. I guess I hadn’t thought what I’d say after that. I just stand there like an idiot while Nick seems to shrink before my eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know that’s terrible.”

“I never guessed,” I say honestly. There’s an awkward silence, then Nick inches out from where I’ve cornered him and sits on the bed. 

“Look, Greg-,” he begins, but I follow him to the bed and stand in front of him, so he’s looking up at me. 

“You were in love with me before?” I ask. Nick nods. “What about now?”

“Now?” He tries to find somewhere to look other than at me, but our eyes end up locked. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I still--. Yeah.”

I take a deep breath, let it out. “Okay.” I sit next to him on his bed. He flinches, like he wants to move but knows I’ll just follow him. “Here’s the thing.” I don’t have enough courage left to make eye contact while I tell him this, so I pick a spot on the far wall to stare at. “I’m in love with you. I was before this. I’m pretty sure I still am.”

Nick shifts his weight, and the bed creaks. I can’t bring myself to look at him, but I can imagine the look on his face. Like he looks when a piece of evidence turns up that completely blows his theory. I wait for him to find words, and it takes several moments. “I’m sorry,” he says at last. 

I wonder for a moment if we’re having the same conversation, and I risk looking at him. I needn’t have bothered; he’s turned away. “Excuse me?” I ask, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “It’s not fair. I just… You know about Stockholm   
syndrome?”

I can’t be angry. I don’t think I have angry in me right now, but I want to be. “Fuck you,” I spit out. I grab his chin and turn his head to make him look at me. “You’re saying that because I’ve gone through a traumatic experience, I don’t know what I’m feeling?” He has nothing to say to that. “I was in love with you before, Nicky. Have you noticed the flirting? The awkward innuendo?”

Nick holds up a hand to stop me. “Even if--. I mean, now, you can’t possibly--.”

“Can’t possibly what? Can’t possibly feel what I feel?” I didn’t want it to come to this, but he needs to hear it. “Do you know where I was when those guys took me?” I wait for an answer, but he shakes his head no. “I was at a club. Do you know why? Because I couldn’t have you. You get it? I wanted you so badly, thought about you all the time, and I needed to go do something stupid just to get you out of my head for one night. I was so in love with you… I am so in love with you. I mean, chalk up one in the irony column. I   
was at that club because I couldn’t have you, and because I was at that club, I finally got you.” I laugh, partly at the look on Nick’s face, and partly because if I don’t I might cry. “Of course, those weren’t the circumstances under which I imagined you falling in love with me, but…”

Nick is very still, very pale. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers.

“Why didn’t you tell _me_?” I shoot back, and he manages a weak smile. 

“So, what do you…? What should we…?” he trails off. 

“I don’t know yet,” I say, and then the adrenaline or whatever that’s gotten me this far leaves me in a hurry, and I feel suddenly, desperately tired. “Can we just… Leave it until tomorrow?” Nick nods his agreement. “Can I--. Can I stay with you?”

He looks surprised, and a little frightened, but he lies out on the bed, turning on his side to give me space. I curl up in front of him, my back pressed to his chest, and after a moment he gently, hesitantly wraps an arm around my waist. His arm fits perfectly, like a puzzle piece falling into place, like everyone who has ever held me has been missing an essential something. It’s more right than it is scary, and somehow that thought comforts me. I relax into his arms, and think of chemicals.


	5. Concealing

I pray you all  
If you have hitherto concealed this sight,  
Let it be tenable in your silence still.  
And whatsoever else shall hap tonight,  
Give it an understanding, but no tongue.

\- William Shakespeare, Hamlet

 

*************

All the paper-shuffling in the world couldn’t change the evidence on Gil Grissom’s desk. Dawn found him sitting in his office staring at inconclusive DNA result print-outs and trying to ignore the headache that had settled at the base of his skull. Nick’s voice saying _“I raped Greg_ ” pounded inside his head with every throb of his pulse, alternating with his own voice echoing, _“If something happened, that’s on me_ ,” until he turned on the radio to drown it out. When his cell phone chirped, he very much wanted to turn it off. Instead, he picked it up and growled, “Grissom.”

“Gil. It’s me,” came Catherine’s voice. “I thought you might want an update.”

Grissom sighed. “Yeah, of course, Cath.” He pushed the DNA results aside and closed the folder. “We haven’t made much headway here. I’m going to send Sara and Warrick home in a few hours, start fresh tonight.”

“Find anything useful?”

Grissom hesitated before answering. “Both Nick’s and Greg’s DNA were at the scene.”

“Right. You knew that when you called me to come to the hospital. You said you’d found them both at the scene. Did you find out anything new?”

“There was a mattress at the scene with several semen contributions,” Grissom said. The back of his neck felt prickly, and he wondered why it was suddenly so hard to talk about DNA. “Wendy says most of them were over 24 hours old, so not from the time-frame of the assault.” 

“Most of them?”

“The only semen from the time frame of the assault belonged to Greg.” Grissom felt dirty somehow, saying it, though talk of DNA had never bothered him before. It seemed somehow less scientific when he knew and cared for the person to whom the DNA belonged.

Catherine was silent a moment. “Gil, you know that it’s not unusual for a rape victim to have an erection or even ejaculate during a sexual assault,” she said gently. “Maybe that would explain…”

“Explain what?” Grissom asked impatiently.

“I think something’s really wrong,” Catherine said. “Greg knows how important it is to collect evidence, but he refused an SAE kit, and he refused to let me take an impression of the bite on his shoulder. That’s not like him. But maybe if he’s feeling ashamed about what happened to him, about his physical reaction…”

“Oh,” Grissom said as he mentally sifted facts to see if this was what they were trying to tell him. _Not quite_ , he decided. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“Maybe we should let Nick talk to him. They seem to be--.”

“No,” Grissom said more loudly than he meant to. “I mean, he’s got problems of his own to worry about,” he added quickly. 

The line was silent for a moment. “Okay,” Catherine said. “Can you tell me why you’re not telling me whatever you’re not telling me?”

Grissom sighed. “No.”

“Okay,” Catherine said again. “I’ll check on them once more, then I’m going to get some sleep.” She clicked her cell phone shut without waiting for Gil’s answer. It stung that he didn’t trust her with whatever information or theory he had about what happened to Nick and Greg. _But Gil’s not always right_ , she reflected. _And if I can do anything to help Greg come to terms with his feeling about what happened, and about the evidence, then I will._ She fretted all the way to Greg’s room, where she quietly opened the door and peered inside. 

There was no one in the bed. The IV needle was lying discarded on top of the disheveled sheets. Catherine turned on the light and checked the bathroom, but there was nowhere Greg could have hidden. He was gone. Catherine reached for her phone, but decided not to call for help just yet. Instead, she sped down the hall, stopping eight doors down: Nick’s room. 

She hesitated a moment, then gently eased open the door. A sliver of light fell from the hall onto the bed, and she could see two figures nestled under the covers: one brown-haired, and one dirty-blond. She quickly shut the door again. _Okay. New theory._ Catherine backed away from the room, then turned and made for the elevator. _New theory. I have no idea what’s going on._  
*********

 

**Greg**

 

_Club Boy slaps me across the face, and I taste blood. There’s no gag this time. “I want to hear you beg for it,” he says with a sick grin. He’s holding me by the throat, and with my hands tied behind me I don’t have the leverage to push him off. It only takes one hand to hold me down, even though I’m fighting, I am, I don’t want this, but he’s reaching for his pants, and unzipping his fly._

_“Hurry up,” says a voice off to the side somewhere, and when I turn to look I see Nick standing there beside the mattress, looking impatiently at his watch. “I’ve got better things to do,” he says. “I have to feed the ant farm.”_

_My vision goes dark around the edges, but I can still see Club Boy’s face when he leans down over my naked body, still smell cigarettes on his breath when he says, “Come on, whore. Let’s hear how much you want it.”_

_“No,” is what I mean to say, but it comes out, “Please.”_

_Suddenly Nick’s kneeling beside me. His hand replaces Club Boy’s on my throat, and he says, “He likes it rough. Don’t you, G?” He loosens his grip for a moment. “Answer me,” he says._

_“Yes,” I say softly, and both of them laugh. Then Club Boy pushes my knees apart, spits on his fingers. Nick touches my face gently. “I love you,” he says. “I have for a long time.” Then he kisses me softly, tentatively, and that’s when I feel a searing, blunt pain._

“No!” I come awake in a sudden rush, arms and legs flailing as I fight my way out of tangled sheets, and I hear a crash from nearby. I press myself back against the headboard, drawing my knees to my chest and putting my head down. I dig my fingers into my legs, trying to reassure myself that I’m awake. C2H5HO is ethyl alcohol. 

Someone stands up on the left side of the bed, and I jerk my head up to at the noise. It’s Nick. Not Nick from my dream, but real Nick, in hospital-issued pajamas, hair tousled from sleep. I’m in a hospital room. Nick’s hospital room. Safe. “What happened?” Nick says, looking around frantically. 

I try to form words, to tell him I’m okay, and that’s when I realized my jaw aches from clenching it so tightly. In fact, I’m so tense I’m shaking. KClO3 is potassium chlorate. I concentrate on relaxing until I can grind out, “Nightmare.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Nick says, and reaches for me. I can’t help it: I flinch when he lays a hand on my arm. He notices, of course, and backs off. “I’ll call the nurse,” he says softly.

“No,” I manage to get out. “No, don’t go. Just… Don’t touch me.” I feel a little rush of déjà vu as I realize that’s exactly what I told Nick in that basement, and I see the same look of hurt and uncertainty on his face now that I saw then. Thinking of that basement, of that night, is the wrong thing to do. Calm down, Greg. Lithium citrate is Li3C6H5O7. I work on prying my fingers off of my legs one at a time. Nick keeps silent, and watches   
me from beside the bed.

By the time I’m done willing my fingers loose, the worst of my panic attack or whatever it was has abated. “Sorry,” I say, and my voice comes out raspy.

“Don’t be,” Nick replies. “Do you want me to call a nurse now?”

I shake my head. “Just give me a sec.” I try to uncurl myself, but my adrenaline’s still pumping, and my body’s not convinced that it’s okay to abandon the fetal position.

“Can I do anything?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head again. Nick watches me, keeping his distance. I know he’s trying to give me space; it’s not like I’ve given him any clue what would help me right now, but the silence between us is definitely not what I need. 

So talk, Greg. That’s what you do. _I want to hear you beg for it._ I close my eyes, but I see Club Boy’s, so I quickly open them again. Now I understand how crazy people get lost in their heads, in their own fantasies and fears. I need to concentrate on something outside my self. Something like… Nick. I focus on his face, on his eyes.

“I have this thing,” I say. “Like a zen of chemistry thing, really. I do it when I’m nervous.” Talking is normal, talking is another thing I do when I’m nervous, to release the tension, usually pissing off Grissom in the process, but now my muscles are relaxing in spite of themselves, and if I keep talking I think I might just be able to be not-crazy sometime today. With Nick listening to me intently, like he cares, I could go on talking forever.

“I recite chemicals formulas,” I continue. “In my head. And sometimes I do it before I go to sleep. Better than counting sheep. Keeps away nightmares, too. At least, usually.”

“Usually?” Nick echoes softly.

I’ve come down from my adrenaline high enough to control my own body, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed so I’m facing Nick. “Well. I guess my nightmares come in extra strength now.”

“Is this the first time since-?” Nick stops, and I can’t tell if he thinks continuing would upset me or if he’s unable to think of a word for what happened to us.

That line of thought doesn’t bear too much exploration. “I should go back to my room,” I say, suddenly aware of the daylight flooding in through the windows. Just now being here in Nick’s room, even if it’s during the time when we would normally be sleeping, seems conspicuous and somehow dangerous.

I think the thought occurred to him to, because he just nods. I stand up and shuffle toward the door, thinking that I should have said something else.

“They said I could probably go today,” Nick says suddenly, as if he’s just remembered.

I stop, one hand on the door. “Don’t leave,” is my immediate response. I bite my lip right after; I don’t want to needy. I don’t want Nick to have to take care of me.

“If I go, I’ll come back,” Nick says, walking up behind me. “I just want to see how things are going with the investigation.”

Investigation. Shit. A new wave of panic threatens, but I manage to control it by turning around and looking at Nick. “You haven’t said anything, right? I mean…”

Nick looks at the floor. “Greg, I’ll go along with whatever you want. I’m not sure why you didn’t want to tell Gris in the first place--.”

“Not sure?” Panic gives way to anger, but I don’t mind. Anger is good. Anger feels strong, even if it feels completely wrong to lash out at Nick, of all people. “I am already the rookie, the clown, the fuck-up. I don’t want everyone—the people I look up to, to know what happened, to look at me with pity. Poor little Greggo.”

Nick doesn’t try to argue with me, or try to touch me, which is probably smart on his part. “Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it,” he says softly. “I can’t tell you for sure what will happen. I just… I’m a terrible liar, Greg. You know I am. We can’t keep this a secret.”

I can’t believe that. Not yet, at least. I open the door, but pause on my way out. “We have to try.”  
*****************

 

Come sunset, Sara found Grissom himself in the garage processing a car. 

“Whose is this?” she asked as Gil extracted himself from the passenger seat.

“Not sure,” Gris replied. “Matches the description in Brass’s report of the car from the bus station, down to the fuzzy dice. Put out a bulletin on it this morning, and it turned up in a parking garage off the strip. Plates are missing, though.” He fixed Sara with a measuring glance. “How are you?”

Sara shrugged. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“You’re here now,” Grissom said, and waved at the car. “Could you process the rest of this?”

“Sure,” Sara said, profusely grateful that Gil wasn’t making a bigger deal of her uncharacteristically emotional display. “If you can tell me what I’m looking for.”

“What we’re always looking for,” he said archly. “Evidence of a crime.” 

Sara just glared at him.

“Am I interrupting?” asked Brass as he strode into the garage, making a b-line for Grissom. 

“Not at all,” Grissom said, then frowned when he saw the look on Brass’s face. “What?”

“What?” Brass echoed incredulously. “You ignore my phone calls, avoid me, and keep me out of the loop on an undercover investigation I was running, and then you ask me ‘what’?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” Gil replied calmly.

“Where the hell is Nick Stokes? What the hell happened out there? Why are you acting so—so--?”

“Shady?” Sara supplied, and Grissom shot her an angry glare.

“Shady,” Brass agreed. “We’re on the same team here, Gil. Whatever information you have, I need to know it. I’m not the Sheriff; you don’t need to give me the run-around.”

“Nick? What are you doing here?” Sara broke in.

Grissom and Brass turned to see Nick hovering in the doorway to the garage. An uncomfortable hush settled over the garage.

“I got released from the hospital,” he said, fidgeting. “I thought-. I thought you might need me.”

Grissom took a step forward. “Nick, you need to take it easy.” 

“Where the hell have you been? Hospital?” Brass looked from Nick to Grissom and back again. “Why didn’t you report back the other night? Archie and I sat in that parking lot all night, until something happened to the signal. We didn’t know where the hell you were.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick said meekly.

“Nick, you should go home,” Grissom said.

“We need his statement, Gil!” Brass stared at Grissom. “He has information relating to a series of crimes--.”

“Jim, this isn’t helping the investigation,” Grissom said.

“Gris, maybe we should--,” Sara began.

“Sara, you have a car to process,” Grissom said, pinning her with a stern glare. She glared right back.

Meanwhile, Brass had rounded on Nick. “You need to tell us what happened,” he growled. 

Nick backed up a few steps. “Hey, I’ve told Grissom all I can,” he said, holding up his hands.

“Jim, leave it alone,” Grissom said warningly, turning away from Sara.

Brass fixed Grissom with an incredulous glare. “He knows what happened, and he has a responsibility to tell us.” He turned to Nick. “Let’s hear it.”

“I can’t,” Nick protested weakly.

“You mean you won’t. Come on, Stokes.”

Gil moved to stand between the two. “Jim. Stop it. Right now.”

After a final disbelieving stare at Grissom, Brass turned and headed out of the garage the way he’d come, leaving Grissom alone with a shaken Nick Stokes and an angry Sara Sidle. First, he turned to Nick. “Nick, I think it would be better if you stayed out of the investigation for now. You understand?”

“Yeah. Yes. Of course.” Nick shook his head. “This was stupid of me.”

Grissom rested a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “You should go home. Get some rest.” Nick nodded twice, and wandered out. 

Slowly, Grissom turned to face Sara, who had her arms crossed over her chest, and was watching him calculatedly. “You know what happened,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Car,” was all Grissom said before he walked out of the garage. He was halfway to the DNA lab before he realized he was still wearing an oil-stained forensics jumpsuit. Upon reflection, he decided he wasn’t so eager to change that he would risk having to talk to Sara again. 

In the DNA lab, he found Wendy disassembling a microscope. Unsurprisingly, the night shift hadn’t brought in much evidence in the past few nights. Grissom himself had had other things on his mind. Wendy looked up when she saw him come in, and gave him an uneasy smile. He wondered how much she’d guessed about this case.

“Hey Wendy. Listen,” he said, taking a stool next to her. “When you get the results from the samples Sara’s going to bring you from that car, I want you to tell me right away, okay?”

“Sure,” she shrugged. “I’ll be glad to have something useful to do.”

“Wendy.” He waited until she looked up from her microscope. “Don’t tell anyone else until I give you the go ahead. Understand?”

“Okay. Got it. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

Grissom put a hand on her shoulder. “I mean it. Sara, Catherine, Captain Brass, anyone comes looking for these results, you don’t have them.”

Wendy stared at her boss. “Is there something I should know?” 

“No,” Grissom said as he headed for the door. “This is something no one should know.”  
*************


	6. Evident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Ive been promising an ending to this story foralmost two years now. Im a bad, bad person for not finishing this story before now, but another fandom (*cough*Heroes*cough*) ate my brain. Give props to QueenoftheNight and PainfullyStoic for giving me a kick in the ass.

Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others  
\-- Fyodor Dostoevsky

*********

**Nick**

 

Evidence. There’s so much evidence. I know that there always is, but it’s usually a good thing for me. This time, every piece of evidence is a knife in my side. 

I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t leave Greg. I’m not sure if my being around helps him or hurts him, but I couldn’t just sit around at home. He was alone in his hospital room when I got there. 

“Hey,” he says, looking up from his surfing magazine. “You look like shit.”

That makes me smile. “Thanks.”

“So what happened?” he asked.

“I went to the lab.” It’s only fair that I tell him how I think this is going to end. “Greg… I know you don’t want anyone to find out, but… Sara is processing the car they were driving. They’re going to have one of them in custody before long, if they don’t already. And then they’re going to find out exactly what I did.”

Greg bites his lip, thinking. “What if I’m not pressing charges? Then none of this is necessary, right?”

“It’s more than that,” I say slowly. “They’ve done this before, to other people, and they haven’t been caught. Now, maybe once we’ve got them in custody, we’ll be able to pin the other attacks on them. But this is the best evidence we’ve got against them so far. If we’re not charging them with kidnapping you…”

“Okay,” Greg says, and I can see that his mind is racing. “So charge them with kidnapping. Nobody needs to know about… About the other part of it.”

If only it were that simple. I shake my head and ask, “Are you prepared to lie to the grand jury?”

“What do you expect me to do, then?” he snaps. 

“I...” I spread my hands helplessly. “I want to do the right thing, Greg. I want to get these guys for what they did to us—to you, but I don’t want to hurt you anymore. How do I do that? Just tell me what to do.”

Greg crawls out of his bed, putting more distance between himself and me, and goes to stand by the window. I can’t read anything from his body language other than stress. 

“You don’t want anyone to find out about the… That part of it. But those guys aren’t going to leave that out of their testimony,” I point out. When Greg says nothing, I start to worry. “If I’d done something different… I could have stopped it,” I say quietly. I’m not sure what I should have done, but I feel in my heart of hearts that I should have saved Greg, saved both of us. That’s what Nick Stokes does—saves the day. Except this time I’d failed, failed not only myself, but Greg. 

“You don’t know that,” Greg says. His voice is flat, emotionless. That much pessimism is so unlike what Greg should be. It seems wrong for him to be so defeated.

 _I did that_ , I realize. _It’s my fault he’s changed_. “Please don’t say I’ve broken you forever.” The words slip out before I even think them. 

Greg turns around. He looks almost puzzled. “Stop blaming yourself,” Greg says. There is a little bite in those words, enough to cut through my self-pity. “You’re the reason I didn’t break, Nick. You’re the strong one. Stronger than me. Stronger than I ever could be.”

“That’s crap, G. Look at you.”

“So, are we going to stand here and compliment each other all day?” Greg’s mouth turns up a little at the corner, and I have never been so relieved. 

“If you want,” I say, returning the smile. “I’m sure there’s something else to talk about, though.”

“Right.” Greg takes a deep breath. “Getting our story straight. Let’s do this. We need a plan, and whatever it is, we need to agree on it fast.”  
*****************

For some reason Warrick doesn’t quite understand, Catherine is running this little lab pow-wow. Brass had shown up looking for an update, and Grissom was nowhere to be found. Now Brass, Catherine, Sara, and Warrick are standing around the lab, reviewing the facts.

“We’ve got the owner of the Buick in custody, a Cazamir Gorski. We’ve also had a hit in AFIS from the DNA on those beer bottles. Charles Dunham, age 20, previously arrested for shoplifing,” Catherine reports. 

“How is it we haven’t been able to find these guys the last six times, and this time it was so easy?” Warrick asks.

“Witness,” Brass says. “Nick was with them, so he was able to give us descriptions and license plate numbers. And we got to the see the crime scene, in pristine shape, even.”

“Okay, so how--.” Sara stops herself. “Never mind. I’m not even going there.”

“We already matched DNA from the two suspects to samples from the beer bottles, which places them at the scene,” Catherine jumped in. 

“Hopefully we’ll be able to get them to give up the other two,” Brass said. “What else do we have that I can use against these guys?” 

“Well, the beer bottles put them at the scene,” Warrick says. “If we can get blood panels, we can see if they were using meth, and if it was from the same batch as the meth we found at the scene.”

“We found a kit in the trunk of the car: duct tape, which matches the end of the strip we found at the scene. Same kind of rope, too. And GHB, which they use to knock out their victims.”

“But the piece de resistance was what we found in the Buick,” Sara jumps in. “Used condom, wrapped in a tissue, on the floor of the passenger seat. Still enough DNA inside for a sample: Grissom handed it off to Wendy a few hours ago. That should tell us which of them committed the actual rape.”

“Wait—can we prove that this condom was used in the rape?” Catherine asks.

“It’s theoretically possible to lift epithelials from the outside of the condom, match them to the vic. If the evidence is fresh enough,” says Sara

“Can Wendy do it? Catherine asks.

“She says she’ll try. Apparently it’s really tricky, and it helps if you have experience. Greg’s done it before.”

“That’s not helpful,” Warrick grumbles.

“Right. But we have to let her try, at least.”

“Okay. I can work with that, maybe. If the suspects know we have that evidence, maybe it’ll light a fire under them. Thanks, guys.” Brass left. “Hey Cath, can I take another look at that car?”

“Sure.” Cath leads him out, and Sara and Warrick stand for a minute in silence.

Finally, Warrick has to say something. “Say we can prove this is the condom from the scene. Somehow. Then this is all coming together very neatly. Except for one thing.”

“Nick,” Sara says glumly.

“Exactly.”

“Where was Nick while all this was going on?”

“We have to talk to him again.”

“He won’t tell us. He wouldn’t tell Grissom, and he wouldn’t tell Catherine.”

“Let me try. Nick and I go way back. If he won’t tell me, then it’s a lost cause.”  
****************

**Greg**

_This time I’m not naked, and I’m not tied up, either. It’s someone else on that filthy mattress, curled up to protect himself. Club Boy aims a kick at his back, and he whimpers._

_Gunman taps me on the shoulder, and hands me the gun. “Watch and learn, Greg,” he says. He and Club Boy wrestle the man into submission, pinning him to the mattress on his stomach._

_“You comfy, faggot?_

_I stare at the gun in my hand, willing myself to do something to stop this, but I can’t move._

_“Put him on his knees,” Club Boy sneers. They wrestle him up as I stand there, paralyzed. I see his face for the first time. It’s Nick: gagged with a dirty strip of cloth, eyes wide with terror._

_“Come on,” Club Boy says, suddenly beside me. “Do it.”_

_“No.” My hand shakes, but I can’t lower the gun._

_“Do it,” he says again. He steps behind me, one hand sliding around my waist and the other coming to rest on top of mine, holding the gun. “Give him what he deserves.”_

_“No. Stop it.”_

_Nick bows his head, and I can’t see his eyes anymore._

_“What are you waiting for? You’ve got to protect yourself.”_

_“He wouldn’t hurt me.”_

_“Is that so?” Club Boy takes his hand off my belly, and I look down to see a bullet wound seeping blood. “You have to do it, Greggo,” Club Boy whispers. “He has to be punished.”_

_I look back at Nick kneeling there, eyes downcast, and I pull the trigger._

 

“No!” I wake up shouting, and I don’t know where I am. It’s pitch black. I try to move, but I’m tangled in something. In a panic, I start to struggle. 

“Greg?” I hear footsteps, coming closer outside the room, and then Nick is standing in the doorway, haloed in light from the hall. With the light spilling in, I realize that I’m in my house, tangled in the sheets of my own bed.

“What happened?” Nick asks.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” I say sheepishly. 

“I took you home, remember? Greg?” He moves as if to step into the room, but stops himself. “You’re in your house.”

“Yeah. Of course. Sorry.” I pull myself up to rest against the headboard.

“Was it a nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“I had them for months after that thing with… I know it’s not the same, but…” Nick shrugs. “If you want to talk?” 

I close my eyes and see my hands covered in blood. “No,” I say quickly. 

“Okay. Whatever you want is fine.” 

Nick starts to leave, but I call after him, “You think Grissom’s figured it out by now?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders slump in defeat. “Of course he has.”

“What do you think he’ll do?” I know Nick’s talked to him, I just can’t figure out what they’ve said to each other. For all I know, Grissom has it figured out already, and is just waiting to arrest both of us.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Nick says, and I believe him. “The rest of the team will figure it out soon, though,” he adds. “And who can say what any of them are going to do.”

“I know.” There’s more than enough evidence for them to figure it out. The whole situation is such a hopeless mess… I don’t know how this can possibly be fixed.

“Do you mind if I go out for a while?” Nick says abruptly. “I just… Need to clear my head.”

“Sure.” As painful as this is for me, I can’t even imagine what Nick’s going through, blaming himself for what happened and expecting to be hauled off to prison.

I’m still trying to figure out some words of comfort to offer Nick when he ways, “Call me if you need anything, alright?” and speeds out of the house.  
*******************

Grissom made it to the DNA lab fifteen seconds after Wendy paged him.

“I understand why you wanted to hear this first. Please tell me there’s some logical explanation for all this.”

“There’s a logical explanation for this,” Grissom said. Wendy looked at him expectantly. “First tell me the results.”

“Fine.” She handed him a printout comparing two sets of DNA. “The semen is Nick Stokes’.”

“And could you get a read from the epithelials on the outside?”

“Greg Sanders.” Her expression was stony. “I’m waiting for this logical explanation.”

“Thanks Wendy,” Grissom said, taking the printout with him as he headed for the door. “I’ll get back to you on that.”  
************

**Nick**

I really just need to get out for a while. I hadn’t meant to return to the crime scene; it occurs to me, even as I was driving up, and parking my Tahoe on the street that this is monumentally stupid. 

I promised myself I won’t touch anything. I just want to look around. Maybe I’ll see something Warrick and Sara had missed, or remember something that might help. 

“Hey Tex.” 

I whirl around to see Jacco leaning against the doorway to the alley. He doesn’t look pleased. “Marty was watching the place. He called me when he saw you drive up. Funny, you coming back.”

“Yeah,” I say vaguely. I’m try to calculate the distance between me and door, and wonder if I could take him in a fight if it came to that.

“Did you hear Caz got arrested?” Jacco asks with faux-casualness. “Funny, that. Wonder how they found him.”

“I don’t know,” I lie. If I’m going to make a run for it, I have to do so before Marty gets here. If he’s not here already.

“You’re a cop,” Jacco says darkly. He takes a step into the room and shuts the door behind him.

“No I’m not,” I say, truthfully.

“But you’re not who you say you are.” 

“I’m not?” My hand itches for my gun, which is back at Greg’s house.

“Thing is, the real Nathan Lawrence, the one we were supposed to meet the other night, he got arrested.” Jacco crosses his arms and leans back against the door. “You know what that makes you?”

“What?” I take a step closer, gathering myself for a sprint to the door.

“A liar.”

I hear sound behind him a moment too late. I feel cloth cover my mouth, and the burn of chemicals in my throat as I take a breath. Then everything goes black.  
***************

**Greg**

The next time I wake up, it’s because the doorbell is ringing, has been ringing for a while. I drag myself out of bed, grimacing at the aches and pains that are better but haven’t quite gone away, throw on a robe, and shuffle out to the living room. I open the door to Gil Grissom. 

“Where is Nick?” he asks. 

I blink at him stupidly. It takes me a couple seconds to process why he’s here, and what he’s asking. “I don’t know,” I say finally. “I assume he’s at home.”

“He’s not at home, and he hasn’t been home.”

Now that my mind has caught up with the situation, I feel alert enough to be annoyed. “What do you care? You put him in this position in the first place.” I leave the door open and head into the kitchen, where there’s coffee and a place to sit.

Grissom doesn’t have the sense to leave, and he follows me into the house. “Greg, I’m sorry for what happened to you.” 

I go about making coffee, which saves me having to look at him. “How could you have put Nick in that situation? How could you have made him feel so horribly guilty? He did the best he could with the situation you put him in.”

“Please, Greg. I just need to talk to him,” Grissom says. He sounds genuinely concerned.

I turn to look at him suspiciously. “He’s really not at his house?”

“No, he’s really not.”

“And he’s not at the lab?”

“No.”

“Give me my phone,” I say. “It’s on the table over there.”

“He didn’t pick up when I called,” Grissom says impatiently. 

I hit the speed-dial anyway. He’d said to call if I needed anything, and even if he’s avoiding Grissom, I’m sure he’ll answer me. Sure enough, someone picks up on the second ring. “Hello?” It wasn’t Nick’s voice. 

“Who is this?” I ask shakily, because I think I know.

“This is Greg, isn’t it?” says the man on the other end. “Nice of you to call. Checking up on your boyfriend, are you?”

“Where’s Nick?”

“Don’t worry, honey. We’re going to take real good care of him.” Then the dial tone is blaring in my ear. 

Moving in a daze, I set the phone down on the counter, and turn to Grissom. “They’ve got Nick.”  
**************


	7. Atonement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Last part. Thanks for sticking with me through the two years it took me to finish this story!

No baseness or cruelty of treason so deep or so tragic shall enter our human world, but that loyal love shall be able in due time to oppose to just that deed of treason its fitting deed of atonement. – Josiah Royce  
********************

I refuse to take no for an answer, and bully Grissom into taking me down to the station with him. 

Brass has already gone to Defcon 1, barking orders into the phone and to a group of nearby uniforms at the same time. “Find me someone who knows their neighborhood, and get me a license plate number!”

“What’s going on?” Grissom asked quietly. I tag along behind him, trying to stay out of the way and not let Brass notice me. 

“Somehow those two assholes we’ve got in custody found out what’s happening,” Brass explains. “We don’t know if they contact their accomplices on the phone or what the hell they did, but whatever they know, they’re not talking.”

“What else do we have?”

Brass shakes his head. “Nothing. Sara’s back at the scene, looking for tire treads, trace, anything. Warrick is on his way to Nick’s, see if there’s anything there.”

“Surveillance?”

“Archie’s cross-checking traffic camera footage from tonight with the night we first sent Nick out, seeing if he can spot anything familiar.”

Grissom grits his teeth. “That could take hours, maybe days.” 

“It’s all we’ve got right now.”

“Let me talk to the suspects,” Grissom says.

“What would that help?” Brass growls. “You’re not a trained interrogator.”

“Let me go with,” I say suddenly. 

Grissom turns to look at me, surprised, as if he’s forgotten I’m here. “Greg, there is no way—.”

“They’ll want to rub it in my face,” I explain. “Maybe they’ll get over-excited and slip up.”

“They do seem over-confident.” Brass looks thoughtful.

“Jim, you can’t actually be considering—?”

“You have a better suggestion? The kid’s idea makes a crazy kind of sense.”

“Absolutely not.” Grissom steps closer to Brass and lowers his voice. “We are not not doing this.”

“Do you want Nick back?” Brass asks. Of course, Grissom has no answer to that. Brass nods in my direction. “Okay then. We’ll send you both in. I’ll set it up.  
\--

**Nick Stokes**

My head is throbbing. In fact, my whole body is one sore mess. As my mind strives to catch up with my body, I try to figure out where I am. I can smell something comfortingly familiar, and it takes me a moment to identify it as hay. I open my eyes, but all is darkness, and it takes me a moment to come to the conclusion that I’m blindfolded.

“He’s waking up.” I know that voice. Jacco. 

Then I remember what happened: they must have knocked me out and taken me here—wherever here is—from the crime scene. 

“Hey there, Nick Stokes,” he says. “I’ve been learning all about you.”

I try to move, and that’s when I realize that my hands are tied above me. My shoulders scream in protest when I try to pull at the ropes. 

“Ah ah ah,” Jacco says. “Let’s play nice.” I hear him fumbling with something, and I wonder if he’s going through my wallet. “Crime lab, this says. So, I take it you were undercover?”

“What are you trying to do?” I ask. I’m surprised that my voice is so raspy, but then I realize my throat is achingly dry. “It’s over. We have your friends. You should turn yourself in.”

“See, Nick, this is why we don’t like you. You lie. It’s not over ‘til I say it’s over.” He shouts, “Marty!”

The sound echoes down the corridor, and I hear an unexpected sound in return: a horse whickering. We must be in a barn. That means they’ve taken me out of the city. I have no way of knowing how long I’ve been out. It could have been hours, or a day, even. I could be anywhere. 

“He awake?” That’s Marty’s voice, not too far away.

“I’m going to cut you down,” Jacco says. “You try anything, and Marty will shoot you. Understand?”

I nod. He comes closer, I hear the snick of a knife, and then I’m falling to my knees. Feeling—burning pain—rushes back into my arms, and I don’t think I’m physically capable of moving even if I wanted to. 

Jacco—at least I think it’s Jacco—hauls me up onto my knees. “You ready to take your punishment like a man?” He chuckles. “Well, not like a man, exactly.” He tightens my blindfold and steps away.

Almost immediately, I feel a hand on my jaw, prying my mouth open. I don’t even have a moment to be afraid before something cold and hard is shoved between my teeth. It’s the muzzle of a gun.  
\--

**Greg Sanders**

Grissom stops just outside the interview room and gives me a significant look. “You sure you want to do this?”

I’m not sure at all. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I think I might throw up at any moment. But if there’s the slightest chance this might help Nick, I have to try.

“Yeah,” I choke out. 

Grissom looks unconvinced, and for one horrible moment, I think he’s going to call it off.

“I have to do this,” I blurt out. “I have to do something to help. Please just let me help.”

Grissom sighs. “If anything goes wrong in there, just get up and leave. Greg. Okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

I’m right behind him when he steps into interview room two. I thought I’d be prepared for the sight of them, but I’m not. 

I know their names now—the blonde one, the one who took me from the club is Cazamir “Caz” Gorski. He has his nose bandaged, and his face twists in disgust when he sees me. _“You wanna get out of here?” He puts his hand on my thigh. “My place isn’t far._ I banish the memory and look at the other one—Charlie Dunham. _He unzips my jeans, stripping them down even as I try to kick and fight._ Looking at him now, I can’t imagine him capable of doing such a thing: he looks pale and frightened.

“Mr. Gorski, Mr. Dunham.” Grissom nods at them both, keeping his face remarkably neutral. “I’m Gil Grissom, head of the Las Vegas crime lab. I believe you’ve met Greg.”

“Why is he here?” Caz sneers, jerking his chin in my direction. “Not cured yet? You want us to have another go?”

 _“Hey faggot. Listen up. You’re very lucky tonight._ For one precarious moment, I think the memories might pull me under. Then another voice breaks through the cacophony of my thoughts. 

_“You have to act like I’m hurting you.”_ Nick is my anchor. Nick didn’t let anything happen to me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anything happen to him.

I pull out a chair at the table and sit down right across from them. “It looks like you guys won’t be hurting anyone else for a long time, where you’re going.”

Caz gives me a cruel smile. “Except maybe your little boyfriend.”

Before I can respond, Grissom jumps in. “That’s why we’re here, actually. If you tell us what you know about this latest kidnapping, the DA is willing to consider a deal.”

“A deal for what? I didn’t do anything. At least, not anything this faggot didn’t want.” He winks at me.

“Withholding information about the kidnapping of a law enforcement agent is a serious offense,” Grissom says. “Don’t make this worse for yourself. Tell us where they are.”

“Psh.” Caz leans back in his chair. “And give up the satisfaction of knowing that my friends are out there right now getting even with that queer? No thank you. I’ll sleep soundly tonight knowing they got him.”

“Charlie.” Grissom turns to the redhead. “What do you say?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says quickly. “Me too.”

“If anything happens to Nick Stokes, and we find out you knew something, that makes you both accessories to the crime. Longer prison terms—.”

“You don’t scare me,” Caz snaps. “That guy—Stokes—he conspired with you. He deserves what he gets. Trying to protect _your_ kind.” He nods in my direction. “He’s a disgrace, even worse than a race traitor.”

“Charlie,” Grissom says calmly, “Do you agree with that?”

Charlie eyes Gorski uncomfortably. “Well, it doesn’t matter, because we’re in here, and they’ve already got him.”

“Who’s got him?” Grissom asks. 

“Shut up Charlie,” Gorski mutters. “You’re never going to find him. You’ll be lucky to recover the body.”

“Why?” I ask. “Your friends planning on keeping him around awhile?”

“What are you trying to say?” Charlie asks suspiciously. “Marty and Jacco ain’t no queers.”

“Charlie, shut it!” Caz snaps.

“Because some might say that kidnapping gay men to have sex with them sort of sends a different message.” I know I’m taunting him, baiting him on purpose. Grissom shoots me a deadly look, but I keep going. “And both of you seemed to be enjoying yourselves the other night.”

“We’re not faggots,” Charlie says fiercely. 

I turn to Caz. “Really? Because you fit right in at the club. Seemed to be having a good time, too.”

“Caz is not a faggot!”

“Charlie, shut up!”

“He’s not. And I hope Jacco does kill your little friend. Takes him out behind the barn and slits his fucking throat,” Charlie shouts, lunging out of his chair.

“Charlie.” Caz grabs him to pull him back down into his seat. “Shut your mouth,” he growls. 

Grissom stands up, and grabs my arm to pull me with him. “I think we’ve heard quite enough from you two,” he says calmly. Dragging me behind him, he storms out.

“What the hell was that?” Grissom demands as soon as we’re out of the interview room.

Brass appears beside us. “Good work. We may have something.” He leads us over to the bulletin board where a map of the area is tacked up. “Martin Dunham’s sister has a ranch out by Lake Mead. Google Earth shows two barns.”

“We don’t know for sure that he literally meant—,” I protest.

“They’re going to keep looking,” Brass says. “But this is the best lead we’ve got. Wilder, Henson, Brown, Conway.” He points out four officers. “You’re with us. Come on, Gil.”

“I’m going with,” I say, and follow them into the hallway. 

“Absolutely not,” Grissom says, and I can tell he’s almost to the end of his rope with me.

“Let him come,” Brass says. “We can keep an eye on him.” 

Grissom throws up his hands and heads out to the parking lot, and I give Brass a thankful nod before following.

Brass drives, and within ten minutes we’re out on the highway with two patrol cars trying to keep up. Grissom doesn’t look so enthused at the break-neck speed, but I’m counting the seconds as the desert flies by outside the window, knowing that every moment that passes makes it less likely that we’ll find Nick unharmed.

“There.” Grissom points at a cluster of buildings across the scrubby land.

Brass lets up on the gas and punches the radio. “Let’s slow it down, people. We don’t want them to hear us coming.”  
\--

**Nick Stokes**

Probably the worst part is the blindfold. I can hear my captors, and I can feel the hard metal of the gun pressed between my lips, but I can’t see them. Can’t see what they’re doing, and can’t anticipate what they plan to do.

“You brought this on yourself, you know,” Jacco says. I feel hands at my waist, unbuckling my belt.

I flinch away, but then Marty grabs the back of my head and hold me in place as he shoves the gun further down my throat. “Be careful,” he says. “Or I’ll get twitchy.”

“Show some backbone, Tex.” That’s Jacco. He slaps me on the ass, almost playful. “You weren’t nice enough to spare your little buddy a real hard fuck the other night. And seems to me you shouldn’t be afraid to take what you dish out.” Jacco shoves a hand down the front of my jeans.

Just then, there’s a tremendous crash. “Las Vegas PD!” Those words have never sounded so sweet. “Freeze! Get down on the ground, now!”

Marty takes his hand off my head, and for one horrible moment I think he’s going to pull the trigger. Then suddenly I’m falling to the floor. There’s confused shouting all around me, and pounding feet. The first shot that’s fired is so close to me I swear I feel the rush of air as it goes by. That shot is answered by a brief chorus of others, and then silence. I lay still, breathing hard and waiting for the worst. 

I hear more footsteps, this time coming closer. 

“Nick?”

I know that voice.

“Nick? Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” He’s fumbling with my blindfold, and then it falls off and I’m blinking into the dusty haze of sunset light. Greg is crouched above me, his worried face leaning close. Beside him is Grissom, who pulls out a pocket knife and gently cuts the ropes from my arms. I pull myself up to sit against the wall, rubbing my wrists to restore the feeling there. 

“Nick, please,” Greg says softly. “Say something. Did they?”

“No,” I say quickly. “They didn’t have time.”

Then Greg throws his arms around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grissom raise an eyebrow in surprise. 

“If they’d hurt you…” Greg squeezes me tighter, but doesn’t complete that thought.

“I’m fine.” I wrap my arms around Greg and hug him back, not caring who sees. “We’re fine.”  
\--

**Epilogue**  
 _Six months later_

“Honey, I’m home!” Nick calls. “Greg?” He walks into the kitchen to find stir-fry sizzling on the stove, but no Greg. He’s assaulted by a stab of panic that he knows is irrational. Nobody’s coming to get them—either of them—but it’s hard to tell that to his instincts, which still drive him to overprotective hovering that can drive Greg crazy. “Greg!” he tries again.

This time, Greg pops his head in from the living room with the phone pressed to his ear. He presses a finger to his lips, and then ducks back into the living room. 

No emergency after all; Greg just wants some privacy. Nick can handle that. He lets go of the hard knot of anxiety that’s been forming, and goes to check on dinner. The stir fry, as it turns out, is on its way to overdone, so Nick turns off the heat and starts setting the table for two. 

Its days like this that make him feel giddy with happiness that he and Greg have developed this kind of suburban normalcy. Considering how their relationship had started, they are lucky to be on speaking terms, let alone living together and sleeping together and enjoying a simple domesticity that makes Nick want to hold on and never let go. 

It isn’t that they don’t have rough spots. Sometimes Greg still wakes from a nightmare and doesn’t want to be touched, calming himself down by reciting chemical formulas. Sometimes Nick still needs Greg to tell him yes, yes for every little thing before he can bring himself to touch, to enjoy. And work’s been difficult, with Nick waiting for the other shoe to drop in the ongoing investigation of the case in which he knows he’s guilty. But he and Greg understand each other. If Nick wants to talk, he knows Greg will listen, and vice versa. Despite the pain of the experience that brought them together, sometimes Nick thinks it happened for a reason. 

Nick has set the table and started dishing out the food by the time Greg comes back into the kitchen. “Hey.” He pauses to give Nick a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing a bottle of wine from the cabinet. “Thanks for rescuing the stir fry.”

“We celebrating something?” Nick raises an eyebrow at the wine.

“Yep.” Greg pops the cork and brings two glasses to the table, into which he pours the Riesling that Nick had been saving for a special occasion. “That was Grissom on the phone.”

Nick narrows his eyes warily. “I’m not coming in tomorrow. I’ve worked twelve days in a row. I need my day off.”

Greg smiles, and it’s then Nick notices he looks genuinely, unguardedly happy, with no shadow of pain or doubt behind his eyes as there has always been recently. “Well… What?” Nick asks eagerly. 

“They’ve accepted a plea bargain.”

“Who’s—,” Nick starts to ask. Then it hits him. “Oh.”

“The DA got Charlie to flip on the other three. Since he didn’t actually do any of the kidnapping. He’s getting a reduced sentence.”

Nick picks up his fork and pokes at his stir-fry. “That doesn’t mean—.”

“There’s no mention of what happened,” Greg interrupts. “With all the evidence from the other crime scenes, and the other victims willing to press charges, they left it alone. Really, Nick.”

Nick pushes the stir-fry around his plate. He can’t quite process the possibility that this fear he’s been living under for six months has finally gone away. He’s been certain that at some point, it’s all going to be taken away from him, and everyone is going to know what he did to Greg. 

“Nick?” Greg waves a hand at him from across the table until Nick looks up blankly. “This is good news. Celebration, remember? The bad guys get punished, the good guys go free?”

“I guess… Yeah.”

Greg pushes out his chair, comes to kneel next to Nick, and takes his hands. “When are you going to stop punishing yourself?” he asks. “What happened wasn’t your fault. Grissom knows that. He helped convince the DA to do this. For us. Because he understands.”

“Greg…” Nick wants to let this go, he really does, but he’s been holding onto this fear so tightly that he’s not sure he can believe what Greg’s telling him. “I just don’t deserve…”

“Me?” Greg chuckles and slides up to straddle Nick’s lap. “I’ve got news, buddy. You do deserve me. And I deserve to have a boyfriend who isn’t always worried that the law is going to break down our door and drag him away for something he didn’t. Even. Do.” Greg punctuates the last three words with three soft kisses. 

“And this is real?” Nick whispers. 

“Yeah.” Greg nods. “Real as the fact that I love you.”

This time Nick kisses him. When they finally come up for air, Greg reaches across the table for his wine glass, gesturing for Nick to get his, too. “A toast,” Greg says. “To us, and the future, and everything that brought us to today.” 

“To us,” Nick agrees. He clinks their glasses together, and they drink to the dregs.


End file.
